


The Atlantis Factor

by sian1359



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Reality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 88,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the stargates and aliens do not exist, there is still an Atlantis</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/113979) by [from_the_corner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/from_the_corner/pseuds/from_the_corner); [Art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/120104) by [Cesare](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare)
> 
> Author Notes: With regard to warnings -- canonical deaths may apply. Also, the html interface (and coding) nearly killed me. If you see something miscoded, feel free to comment and let me know.
> 
> Story Notes: The timeline herein parallels canon and real events … except when it doesn't. James Randi and the Amaz!ng Meeting are real. (As the website puts it: "The Amaz!ng Meeting is a celebration of critical thinking and skepticism sponsored by the James Randi Educational Foundation. Thinking people travel the world to share learning, laughs and life with fellow skeptics and distinguished guest speakers.") So, too, the Mythbusters are real, as are certain other people referenced. The newspaper article about the implosion of the Stardust is lifted wholesale from the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Braknazar, however, is not a real country, and ninety-nine percent of the other named people are characters from one Stargate episode or another. Some of the science is real, but usually only to extent of what I've researched on line or asked an expert about. No disrespect or infringement is intended and no personalities have been impugned, at least none intentionally.
> 
> That this is readable is a testament to **auburnnothenna** , **Mrs. Hammil** and **Himself** , who pulled double duty as science adviser.
> 
> Prompt: The SGC Program Never Happened.

**Part 1.**

## DoD TO MILITARY: IT'S TIME TO TRIM THE FAT  
 _Washington Post  
February 11, 1995_

 _WASHINGTON DC – Faced with the same economic downturn the public is experiencing, today top officials at the Pentagon and the Department of Defense have told the US military to stop asking for projects they don't need._

 _When President Hayes took office, he vowed to cut excess federal spending even before the current signs of recession, and few were surprised when he said everything was on the table, including defense spending. Skyrocketing costs and even more costly failures such as Avenger II have led to red faces and hand slaps …_

When Rodney McKay was ushered into General George Hammond's Pentagon office and found only Nicholas Rush there, already seated, he knew this meeting wasn't going to be good. Whenever an Air Force General called in two scientists pushing rival projects 'to talk', invariably one of them ended up leaving with cut funding. Assuming they weren't just out the door completely.

Almost worse that that thought, however, was with Hammond temporarily AWOL, Rodney had an obligation to say something since he was the one who'd arrived second. At least Rush wasn't the typical idiot Washington seemed to prefer to hire for their projects. He wasn't in Rodney's league, of course, but then so very few people were. His sister, maybe, and one or two others doing some things at CERN and Lawrence Livermore or SLAC. He'd enjoyed his own stint at Fermi before being tapped to theorize directly for the US government, had even had one or two assistants he would have brought with him had they been willing. The rest, though, like the minions he had now, were more a hindrance than help, as none of them could keep up with him, and all of them seemed more interested in kissing up to the grunts instead of providing a viable project to speak for their usefulness and their jobs.

Rodney didn't even care for his own sycophants, which was another thing he had in common with Rush. A general dislike of ass kissers, and any social obligations that served only form's sake. Like small talk. Only in this instance, there was a black shrouded elephant in the room with them, and ignoring it would only cause the distraction go grow bigger.

Rodney bit the bullet. "Sorry to hear about your wife, Rush."

The Scottish scientist looked over in surprise, then gave an abrupt nod. "Sorry to hear about your engagement," he offered in return.

Coming from one of the other scientists fawning about in the Pentagon, Rodney would have bristled over Rush's tone and expression; it wasn't as if it hadn't already been pointed out – numerous times – that he'd been overreaching in his courtship of Captain Samantha Carter, the current aide to Maynard, the Air Force Chief of Staff. All under the guise of commiserating, of course. But Nicolas Rush was possibly the one man with an even worse reputation and set of social skills than Rodney.

He knew he would always consider Rush a rival – a trial if not a direct obstacle – but Rodney's condolences were genuine in this instance, since while a trophy wife, Gloria had been twice as smart as Rodney's current collaborators. Now Rush was going to lose his project too; it seemed obvious given how much Rush had had to let it slide while he watched his wife die slowly over the last few months. Rodney could afford to be sympathetic and gracious. He could put aside his own pain and bitterness – even jealousy – and be the better man.

Going by the expression of loss and devastation Rush's face was falling into again, Rodney also couldn't help wondering if he was going to come out ahead today, and not just in regard to keeping his job. All at once he couldn't imagine caring so much for someone and having to try and survive the level of Rush's agony. The closest he'd come to such grief was when he'd lost his cat, Newton, last year, or maybe the feeling he had when he thought about his estrangement from Jeannie. He couldn't give a damn about his parents.

Now that he was thinking about what it meant for his future that Sam had spurned him, he could see that most of his heartache was stemmed from ego, both in _her_ deciding they couldn't make their relationship work and from the smugness of everyone else who either said he'd had it coming, or that they'd known how it would end all along. Rodney wasn't just a genius, he was a damn good engineer – he could make anything work. Including the white picket fence and two point five children.. As long as he wasn't going to be the one caring for either the fence or the kid. He –

"I'm sorry for my delay, gentlemen," General Hammond interrupted Rodney's thoughts by finally arriving. "Thank you both for coming in. I wish I had good news, but I don't, and as there is no way to make this sound good, I'm just going to say it. The Air Force will be needing to cut several projects and programs. Your work has been valuable and you are both assets that we are hoping not to lose, just redirect. To that end …" He paused and stopped, unbuckling his suitcase and pulling out several folders.

While he checked through both of them, Rodney started to consider whether he might be magnanimous and suggest that the Air Force let Rush continue his project instead of Rodney on his; Rush was already shaky emotionally, who knew if taking away his current work might also make him suicidal. It wasn't like Rodney was concerned with protecting the people working with him should his project be shut down; the two who were competent would of course get reassigned somewhere, and the six idiots, well, science would benefit greatly if they were booted from the field.

"General," he began, feeling good about himself, "I would – "

"Doctor McKay, we are hoping that you would be willing to transfer your staff and research notes over to Doctor Rush, so that he might evaluate whether he could benefit from combining certain aspects of both projects," Hammond interrupted again. He pushed one of the folders Rodney's direction, not even looking up from the other ones to see if Rodney bothered to open it up. "Your presence has been requested by some of your Russian counterparts, to co-lead a joint team with Svetlana Markov."

"Here in California?" Rodney managed to ask despite his shock and indignation. How could they even consider promoting Rush's project over his? How dare they ask him to turn over his notes!

That got Hammond looking up. "We have agreed the Russians will host the research. The Air Force would, of course, assist you in packing and then relocating you, while the Russians have agreed to provide both a comfortable home for the researchers, and twice the size of lab space you currently have, plus all of the equipment and materials you would require. If you'd look through the file, you will see the project goals include – "

"And you want me to relocate to Siberia?" Rodney asked, his voice rising. "Coaching them on… " he stopped and took a further look, wildly curious to see what the fuck the Russians were wanting to waste his time on. "On reproducing Lorentz matrices? You… you think I would… No," he said with as much finality as he could.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Doctor," Hammond offered, though his expression didn't seem to show the same remorse.

Of course not. Rodney hadn't spent much time interacting with this particular general, and during the little time they had spoken, Rodney hadn't wasted his time sucking up. So of course that meant if someone had to go to Siberia, it would be him instead of the quack who wasn't even producing.

"In fact, consider this my fucking resignation."

## HOW DO YOU TAKE DOWN AN F-117?  
 _International Desk; **AP**  
March 28th, 1999_

 _BRUSSELS, Belgium. A radar-evading U.S. F-117A Nighthawk stealth fighter has crashed some 40 kilometers (30 miles) west of Belgrade. According to a NATO spokesman this is their first plane lost during the initial bombing campaign. Serbian TV is showing the wreckage amidst claims that the Nighthawk was shot down and two pilots have been taken prisoner. Major Paul Davis, spokesman for Air Force Chief of Staff General Francis Maynard, will only confirm that the plane has crashed, and that the crew was rescued by an American search-and-rescue team…_

"Nancy, I've got two minutes, what's wrong?" United States Air Force Captain John Sheppard turned his back on the cavernous hanger and tried to position the phone a little better against his ear. This Air Base at San Vito was especially noisy, and with his and the other CSAR and cover teams just back in from recovering the downed Nighthawk pilots, the celebratory din was comparable to being out on an active flight line without headphones.

It didn't help that his crew were standing nearby, Mitch and Dex engaged in an argument while they waited for John to make his emergency call back to the States. Or that the thirty or so other conversations surrounding him were being conducted in fifty or so other languages. International deployments were always interesting, none more so than while part of a NATO task force. Communicating was often iffy –– both in trying to interact with the pilots and crews from the other countries – and in trying to make a phone connection back home.

"John … know … not … time … do …and … sor– … filed …–pers … my … –torney. –John … love … but I've … for …–vorce."

"Nancy, what? Please repeat!" John shouted back into the phone as if that would somehow help him hear his wife's voice. As if his brain wasn't already filling in the missing pieces, too long inured to the tenor of their infrequent exchanges over the last couple of years as they tried to stay connected while he'd been in even more exotic locations than Italy.

Christ, he so did not need another argument right now. Not when he was still so fucking wired from the mission he'd just flown. But Nancy had never understood how satisfied flying for the Air Force and his responsibilities therein made him feel. He'd already given up flying special ops missions at her insistence, agreeing that the dangers of not coming back from covert missions weren't fair to a still new marriage. He'd found what was supposed to be a safer deployment, flying the brass back and forth between European stations, and had been chosen as General Carter's regular pilot-chauffeur. Of course, that had been before the Air Force's top man in Europe had been tasked to head up _Operation Allied Force_ , with Gen. Carter now in charge of not just the Air Force's European operations, but the entire NATO action in Bosnia, complete with front lines and bombing targets.

Certainly no one had foreseen that a _Nighthawk_ would be shot down three days into the air operations over Kosovo. Or that every able pilot would be put into the air to conduct the search and rescue. Yeah, Nancy might have heard from her contacts in the State Department that John had been involved, but it wasn't like he was going to request a transfer to Antarctica or something so he could play it safe. Not when his piloting skills were _needed_ , whether his deployment was part of a war, a conflict, or just as part of the enforcement of a no-fly zone. Nancy may have met him while he'd been on leave all those years ago, but he'd made no secret of the depth of his commitment to the Air Force – to her or to any of his family – and she'd taken his side then. Just as she'd once said she understood what his type of training meant.

"–ohn, I said … sor– … filed … pap– … divorce." Just like that, the static on the line cleared up in time for John to fully hear the final word. The one he'd never wanted to hear, although, to be honest, her decision didn't come as a surprise. Nancy had wanted to be the wife of a scion of industry and Beltway politics, not a military wife traveling from air base to air base.

Not that she came with him any longer.

John sighed. "Okay, Nan, I'll see if I can swing some emergency leave within the next couple of weeks. But you have to know that with the air campaign underway, they're not going to let me get away for more than a few days, so we'd have to meet up in England instead of Virginia – "

"I know, John. You're father … already put his corp– jet at my dispos– … if you can get … Otherwise … just forward … –pers through to Mildenhall and …"

He nodded out of habit, and startled when Holland's hand squeezed his shoulder. He'd been too distracted to notice the guys had shut up and instead had begun hovering with distressed faces. As if they'd figured out what was happening. Well, yeah, it wasn't rocket science; John hadn't kept his and Nancy's problems that much of a secret – not from the three guys he'd gone to OCS with.

"Mildenhall's probably for the best. I'll get them signed and returned as soon as they arrive. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry too, Nan." At least they'd both signed pre-nups, so it wasn't like the settlement was going to be difficult. Nor was he planning on contesting the divorce. Not if that was what Nancy needed from him.

What _John_ needed was … to get drunk. Something that wouldn't be a problem since it had been his crew that had found the pilot. The Dust Devils were the rock stars tonight and not one of them would be paying for their own drinks.

## AMBASSADOR TRADES IN DIPLOMACY FOR DINARS  
 _International Desk; Staff Writers  
October, 13th, 1999_

 _Step aside Grace Kelly; the United States has a new fairytale princess. Although she didn't marry into it, former ambassador to the United Nations Elizabeth Weir is the unexpected and unprecedented heiress to not just a fortune, but a virtual kingdom._

 _The world was stunned yesterday when the will of the world's ninth richest man was made public. A private man who never married and has no acknowledged children, Nimah Jalal Imad al-Hamad, unsurprisingly left a portion of his vast fortune to his fellow countrymen, with endowments earmarked for new roads, schools and hospitals in the tiny country of Braknazar, which has desperately been trying to distance itself from the turmoil of the rest of the Middle East. Unfortunately, native violence and unrest will no doubt flare again with the news that the rest of his estate, rumored to total in the neighborhood of sixteen billion US dollars, has been left not only to an unmarried woman, but to an American._

 _A graduate of Georgetown University, with doctorates in International Relations and Political Science, Elizabeth Weir first served President Hayes as his chief diplomat and senior negotiator during the first term of his presidency. In 1997, she accepted an appointment as the American ambassador to the UN, where she served until her recent retirement this past August. Her work in Bosnia, Sierra Leone, and as the principle negotiator behind persuading North Korea to allow foreign aid food and medicine to reach its people following the devastating earthquake in July 1997 are among the highlights of her career. It was Doctor Weir's success with Nimah al-Hamad in convincing his countrymen to formally recognize Israel, however, that will forever be considered her crowning achievement. This association also led to his astounding bequest._

 _Even Doctor Weir's own countrymen seem uncomfortable with her unexpected elevation into the top twenty-five of the richest people in the world. Speculation on what she might do with the money is running rampant…_

The last person Simon Wallace expected to see knocking on their door unannounced was Elizabeth's first boss at the State Department, the current Undersecretary for Political Affairs, Arthur Simms. Simon knew before the Undersecretary sat down that his presence had to be about Nimah's death, but they were both unprepared for the news of what had been left to Elizabeth. Nor were they prepared for what State expected Elizabeth to _do_ with her sudden wealth.

Simon still wasn't sure how he felt about Elizabeth's eventual capitulation. Accepting the money would leave Elizabeth open to ridicule and accusations. He hoped he wasn't so insecure in their relationship as to worry about the hits to her reputation (and his own), but he really wasn't sure if Elizabeth had a proper grasp of the potential for violence and retaliation this would engender, even beyond the immediate accusations of her having an affair or, worse, having whored herself out for Hayes. It was one thing to laugh and then agree with Arthur that she might want to look into hiring a bodyguard or two. But what about all of the problems that they weren't yet imagining? Off hand, Simon couldn't think of any of the biggest Power Ball winners actually finding happiness with all of their money, and what Elizabeth had inherited would be _twenty-five_ times the largest single payout ever offered in _any_ country's lottery.

"It's not like you don't have the contacts to find yourself a staff," Arthur had offered Elizabeth in parting as she'd walked him to the door, while Simon simply remained seated and stunned. "I would imagine several of your past Marine escorts have retired by now, not to mention certain NSA or CIA field agents recalled to DC or Langley that might be looking for an opportunity to abandon their desks. What's going to be harder to find is a damn good accountant who won't siphon some off the top. And the biggest shark in the law pool that you can stomach."

"My God, Arthur," Simon heard her protest clearly. "We're talking about nine _billion_ dollars in the clear after taxes. Most of the countries I lived in during my work for State didn't have GNPs that high!"

At least she sounded overwhelmed too.

"You always said you got into our line of work to change the world, Lizzy. Now you've got your chance."

## WOMEN'S RIGHTS TRIUMPH IN THE WAKE OF WHITE HOUSE TRAGEDY  
 _December 19, 1999_

 _WASHINGTON DC (Reuters) While no one was completely surprised that Acting President Robert Kinsey appointed a woman as his Vice President in the wake of President Henry Hayes unexpected December 13th death, what was unexpected was the overwhelming confirmation by the Senate to accept her nomination. It's been nearly twenty years since any woman has been proposed for the government's second highest office, only to be utterly rejected in the public elections. Nor have there been any subsequent efforts by either party to place a woman in the White House or any of the higher offices of the government, leaving the political glass ceiling to loom over the occasional Chair of one of the lesser committees in Congress, the Supreme Court Justices, and a handful of Cabinet Secretaries._

 _Samantha Carter, Major, USAF retired, the daughter of the highly decorated General Jacob Carter, USAF, has absolutely no political experience to her name, Still, she has served with distinction as an officer in the US Air Force. Her most recent deployment was as an aide to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force Gen. Francis Maynard, which is no doubt how her path and President Kinsey's crossed …_

"Janet, I can't do this."

Janet Frasier finished looking at the slide and made her notes. She then took out the next PCR sample from the thermal cycler without even acknowledging Sam's arrival. Janet was triple-checking her findings prior to finalizing her report, was even considering calling in a true geneticist first before signing off, even if Congress and Kinsey were on her back about ending it quickly. The forensic analysis of any President's death was well worth triple-checking and spreading the analysis to other eyes. While Presidents did pass away in office, they generally didn't from unknown causes at only fifty-eight and previously undiagnosed with any illness, disease or genetic disorder. Janet hadn't found anything yet, but that was only making her more curious, as well as increasingly nervous, given how important her findings were going to be – to many, many people.

Many people including the presumptive Vice President, one Samantha Carter. Her best friend from way back when they were both at the Air Force Academy.

When Janet finally looked her way, Sam's expression matched the tone of pure terror in her voice. Panic had been Sam's default over the last few days, however, and it wasn't as if a simple case of nerves was a real emergency. Or worth Janet losing her place in her work.

"I rather think it's a little too late to be saying that," Janet finally said mildly as she sorted through her vials for another sample. "Shouldn't you have objected when President Kinsey first approached you instead of waiting until the Senate began their hearings?"

"But I never expected them to say _yes_ ," Sam decried. "Dad assured me it was just Kinsey's way of trying to score points and portray himself as someone who actually gives a damn about something other than national security. I only agreed because both Dad and General Maynard said that getting the recommendation would make me a shoe in for an instructor's posting at the Academy. I don't know a damn thing about politics."

Janet looked up and grinned. "You were one of the first female graduates of the Academy, have been a woman serving in the US Armed Forces for almost fifteen years, and most currently put your time in as a member of the CSAF's staff. Of course you know about politics, Sam. Do you really think your dealings with the occasional Congressman or Senator is going to be any tougher as the Vice President than in dealing with them now? Or from your past dealings with the Neanderthals on the front lines who didn't think a woman was qualified to drive a jeep or fly in an E-8? At least now you'll have some real authority over the misogynistic idiots."

She coaxed Sam over to her desk and bade her to take a look. Sam had more than a passing interest in medicine since her father's diagnosis of lymphoma, and another set of eyes that also fronted a remarkably rational brain was always useful.

"Do you really think being one of a handful of permanent instructors, a woman teaching warfare and tactics, isn't going to face any politics?" Janet asked next. "Or have fewer responsibilities?"

Sam paused in her adjustment of the microscope eye piece to shake her head. "But –"

"But nothing, Sam. It's not like you have to stay in politics or on the ticket when Kinsey runs again. Worst case, you've set back your career a couple of years. The Academy is accepting more civilian professors than ever now, anyway."

## BLINDED BY SCIENCE  
 _March 5, 2000_

 _DATELINE HOLLYWOOD: Mr. Wizard has some unexpected competition. Now that May's television ratings have been counted, stamped and filed, a new media darling has immerged. When Fox Kids was first approached with the idea of resurrecting and updating the old Bell Lab/Frank Capra films with the catchy titles such as_ Hemo the Magnificent _and_ Meteora: The Unchained Goddess, _no one predicted_ The Bell Laboratory Science Hour _would be anything more than a time filler that also happened to help fulfill the network's obligation for providing a certain amount of educational programming._

 _Certainly few people expected anyone to be able to recreate the folksy yet authoritative narration that Frank C. Baxter had brought to the role of Doctor Research, or that today's sophisticated kids would stay interested in a program that was part Bill Nye the Science Guy as channeled by Mr. Rogers, and part leading-edge special effects and video game. And, maybe, it isn't the kids watching that are driving ratings near to equaling the top tier of Fox's nighttime offerings, and have led to four nighttime special rebroadcasts since the first of the year. No, thanks in part to DVRs and downloads, adults have found and are delighted with learning again too. And the host, Professor Bill Lee, has become an unlikely sex symbol in a lab coat and glasses…_

Former Staff Sergeant Dan Siler looked around his office with a sense of warm comfort and surprising accomplishment, despite the dual sense of disconnect that gripped him every time he limped in and booted up his computer. He'd always expected to be a lifer in the Air Force, and he still found it hard to believe that not only had he learned to compensate for the loss of his right eye that had ended his military career, but that he'd also found a second career that was proving to be just as satisfying. That he was still involved with the same sort of work which had led to the accident and his medical discharge appealed to his sense of irony, although most of the time he did understand and agree with why the Air Force had felt they needed to let him go. True, he might not have access to the absolute newest technology, but he could still get his hands on interesting stuff. Hollywood producers were notorious for wanting to get their hands on the bright and shinys no matter the cost if they thought it would keep the viewer's attention.

Bill was just as bad as their producers, always wanting to experiment with prototypes and unproven designs. Despite a couple of their shows literally having blown up in their faces, Dan found Bill's constant excitement just as contagious as their audience seemed to. The shows in which the two of them made mistakes were actually the most popular ones, with a bit of the train wreck or _schadenfreude_ aspect intertwined with the relief that even the eggheads were all too human sometimes.

The Air Force might have been his first choice and his first love, but like most first loves, Dan was beginning to outgrow the motivations of his younger self – or at least beginning to redefine them. He'd always preferred the research and discovery over the equipment, and the satisfaction of the thrill of assisting in a successful experiment was certainly healthier than wanting the thrill of conflict.

## ELIZABETH WEIR FLIES AGAIN  
 _Business Desk, Staff Writers  
August 30, 2000_

 _In a news conference before 200 governmental officials, business leaders and reporters, billionairess Elizabeth Weir announced today that she had bought out the town of Newcomb, New Mexico in order to house her new business endeavor. With a population of around 350 people, and most of them living below the poverty line, it has come as no surprise that few weren't eager to abandon their homes, thanks to the largesse that Doctor Weir provided for their relocations. There is speculation that more than half of the locals have elected to stay despite the buyout, perhaps having also been guaranteed jobs when her doors open._

 _Part philanthropic project, part think-tank, science consortium, and also a cutting edge, high tech manufacturer, Doctor Weir's stated goal is to assemble a collection of the best engineers, scientists and free thinkers from around the world, along with a support staff which will eventually number in the thousands, and set them to working on technological or environmental solutions for the new millennium. Additionally, her people are to work with the international contacts Doctor Weir established during her days as a diplomat for the State Department and the UN, providing council and expertise to those countries left behind in the economic and technological booms shaping the future. Already several Nobel recipients, academic giants, and leading-edge purveyors of exotic technologies have agreed to leave their prestigious positions or to fold their companies into the conglomerate to be known as the Pegasus Holding Group._

 _Doctor Weir and Pegasus plan to raze the existing town of Newcomb and turn it into one of the country's largest corporate campuses, with new construction not only for her headquarters, offices, labs, manufacturing floors and warehousing, but adding housing and recreation for all of the local employees as well as a private airstrip and vehicle testing grounds. Whether the testing grounds are for land or air craft, no doubt the sweetheart deal she's made with the US government that allowed her to also scoop up acres of BLM land was managed under the promise that a certain portion of her company's research will be for DoD purposes …_

Doctor Ben Kavanagh couldn't believe the temerity of the woman. It had been bad enough that he'd been forced to travel to the temporary offices of her Pegasus Group when he knew damn well that several of his colleagues and peers had been interviewed in their own labs or at least their own home towns. Yes, she had sent her own private jet for him, yet that was only his due as well as her responsibility since _she_ was the one recruiting him. The next insult had come in the form of the two pilots and the other man ostensibly there to insure Ben's safety.

While Ben might not have initially pegged the pilot as former military since he looked all of twenty years old, there had been absolutely no doubt in his mind about the other two. Which meant they'd most likely been part of Weir's security and therefore hadn't been present, so much to assist him as to vet his suitability. As if Ben didn't have a security clearance as impressive as his scientific credentials (and no doubt higher than _theirs_ ), along with many companies and universities clamoring for his services and expertise, all with a more likely future than this utopian, scientific … commune she was trying to put together.

His disdain of the military formed at an early age and hadn't softened since. Ben hadn't learned to get along with them any better as he grew older, especially once he'd started protesting against military recruitment at his college. That bit of activism hadn't prevented him from receiving his security clearances – or even kept him from being later employed by various DoD offshoots despite his certainty that the NSA or the FBI had a file on him from his student days. It had slowed down his advancement, yet, now it was apparently keeping him from being an acceptable candidate for _Doctor_ Weir. He should sue, as no doubt Weir had gained a copy of that file despite Pegasus' supposed break from governmental control or oversight.

That biased file must be the reason he'd been treated so disrespectfully by Weir's goons. Why else would the harridan have only offered him a subordinate position in her fledgling – doomed – engineering division? A division that was going to be run by a Cold War socialist for God's sake!

## WORLD BANK GROUP AND IMF SET MEETINGS FOR LATE NOVEMBER  
 _Financial Desk, Staff Writers  
November 14, 2000_

 _BERNE (Switzerland) The Executive Directors of the World Bank Group and International Monetary Fund (IMF) agreed today to consolidate the 55th Annual Meetings of their Boards of Governors on November 30, 2000 in Washington, D.C …_

"Elizabeth, you have to talk to Woolsey."

Elizabeth frowned and then offered her companion a look of apology, but Peter Grodin simply smiled at her in commiseration and picked up his portfolio before slipping away from her office.

"What has Richard done now, Marshall?" she asked her lead watchdog as he stormed up to the front of her desk. She truly liked Marshall Sumner and was grateful for the job he was doing for her in taking responsibility for her personal security now just as he once had when she'd work for State. But even after working together for nearly two years as part of Pegasus, Marshall seemed to have trouble remembering that he wasn't a Colonel in the Marines any longer, that although she was his protectee, he shouldn't be the one deciding whether she could be interrupted in matters other than those dealing with her direct security. Trouble with her lead counsel might be a threat to Marshall's patience or his sanity, but it wasn't a threat to her life or her company's, unlike summarily dismissing Peter Grodin's findings could turn out to be.

Marshall frowned, his expression all the more severe for the buzz cut and side-walls he still maintained although he'd retired three years ago after his twenty in the Marines. "He's refusing to take a bodyguard to the World Bank Group meeting."

Okay, that could be a problem.

While Elizabeth understood Richard's reluctance to have a babysitter, she also knew that her prickly Chief Counsel was well aware of the threats to his person that went with his position so high in the Pegasus organization. Frankly, she was surprised Richard was giving Marshall so much trouble, since she imagined showing up with bodyguards in front of the men Richard considered his peers or role models would actually serve as something of a cache in Richard's world. "Who did you assign for him?" she asked, thinking the problem might lie therein.

"Bates as lead, and Miller as back-up and pilot."

And there was the rub. Few people were pricklier than Richard Woolsey, but former Master Sergeant Eugene Bates was quite the immovable object to Richard's irresistible force.

"I know Eugene is your second, and I appreciate the seriousness in which you look after Richard's safety, but maybe it would be better to consider a different lead on the team?" Elizabeth temporized. "What about Chuck working with Keith instead?"

Marshall scowled. "He's too young."

Elizabeth raised a brow. "He's only a couple years younger than Eugene and is older than Joseph Markham, who you allow to watch _me_."

"Not as lead. And Chuck is… he's – "

Elizabeth couldn't keep the grin off her face. "He _is_ ex-military, Marshall."

" _Canadian_ –"

"Canada has a fine military, a great federal police force and Chuck did achieve the rank of Master Warrant Officer before mustering out," Elizabeth pointed out, but then gentled her smile and rose from her desk to move past her desk and take his arm. "Not every one can be a _Marine_ , Marshall," she chided kindly. "Chuck is also something of a computer geek so, if nothing else, he can help Richard with his presentation should something go wrong on the technical side of things."

## THE LITTLE TOWN THAT COULD?  
 _Gallup Gazette  
May 02, 2001_

 _NEWCOMB, New Mexico. No one would recognize the Newcomb of even a year ago compared to the Newcomb of today. Gone are the mobile and pre-fab housing, the few squat buildings that comprised the downtown Main Street. In their stead, gleaming towers full of windows and solar panels are beginning to rise, buildings that would be noteworthy even in the downtowns of New York City, Tokyo, Paris, or Dubai. Some will serve as the offices for her staff and laboratories for her scientists, while others will house Pegasus Group's employees whether they are the janitor, the cook, a marketing vice president or a Nobel Prize winner. It is reputed that housing is included in every employee contract._

 _To offset that extraordinary benefit, speculation is that base salaries are just as extraordinarily low, leaving the question of how Doctor Weir has been able to entice so many notable inventors, designers, scientist and engineers to leave their cushy jobs and high paychecks. Of course, if extraordinary project budgets with minimal micro-management are being offered along with stock options or profit sharing as part of the deal, that would definitely be incentive for certain types of people to bring their best to Doctor Weir's table …_

"You can't be serious!"

"Hello, Mer." Jeannie McKay Miller settled herself more comfortably in her chair and kicked at the lever to lower her chair's back. She was still tickled by the efficient surface her expanding belly made for the book she picked to read. Kaleb had been such a sweetheart to get her this chair to replace her previous one as her pregnancy progressed. "And how are you today?"

"How am I?" Doctor Meredith Rodney McKay shouted as he stormed into her office. "How about in shock once again at the absurdity of his sister's decisions?" How about feeling betrayed and –"

Jeannie frowned up at her brother, not intimidated by his looming and having no intention of shifting her bulk upward to counter it. "Mer, you've left this company three times in the last seven years to hare off and dabble in pet projects elsewhere. You have no right to feel betrayed, or to call my decision to become a wife and mother – or to take a sabbatical to check out Pegasus – absurd." She let her frown turn into a scowl. "Elizabeth Weir is trying to put together something amazing, something very much like what you and I always talked about as our ideal jobs. Why in the world wouldn't I take the time to see if it lives up to the rumors?"

"How about because you're seven months pregnant?" Mer threw back at her with a characteristic chin lift.

"They do have doctors and hospitals in America, even if they don't have universal health care. In fact, I've heard that Doctor Weir's hired one of _Centre hospitalier de l'Université de Montréal's_ finest internists, not to mention a front-line trauma surgeon from Walter Reed, and a world renowned diagnostician from John Hopkins. Maybe none of them are practicing OB/GYNs, but I'm sure they can manage their way around a uterus."

Mer turned positively green at her words and her nonchalance, but that only caused him to raise his chin higher while the left side of his frown curved lower, "What about moving to the wilds of not just America, but the mountains of Colorado? You're going to be snowed in five or more months out of the year, and –"

"And it's New Mexico, not Colorado. Not to mention that we live in fucking Toronto right now, Mer," Jeannie responded with a laugh. "We just had twelve centimeters of snow a week ago and how many times has the city been shut down by weather over the past few years? Frankly, if I'm going to be stuck somewhere with a snow day – or a snow month," she amended in anticipation of his opening mouth, "then it would be a hell of a lot more interesting to be somewhere where the snow is actually white. Plus somewhere I can still scoot over to my lab if I get inspired despite the snow, and where I might actually get to know my neighbors, if we _were_ trapped for a few evenings," she then grinned. "There is also the fact that Madison will have the best possible teachers available for home schooling, and that I will finally have the chance to become involved in something more than testing theories, teaching someone else's kids, or building bombs."

"Madison?"

She kept her next grin to herself as Mer allowed himself to be distracted for just a moment since this was the first time Jeannie had given any indication that she and Kaleb were done arguing about baby names.

"So you've given in and found out whether it's going to be a boy or a girl?"

Jeannie shook her head. "Nah, we still want to be surprised. Madison, like Meredith, works no matter what the kid's sex is going to be."

Mer frowned again, and Jeannie felt a moment's guilt for that, since she knew that her brother preferred to be known as Doctor M. Rodney McKay. But he'd been her Mer ever since she'd first been able to form words, while _Rodney_ was the arrogant bastard that bullied, yelled and berated her. Meredith was still her arrogant, bullying, _loving_ , big brother.

"Elizabeth Weir is a nobody," he finally flailed both his hands and his words in her direction with no more trace of that momentary softening. "She's at best a dilettante, is a _political_ scientist for fuck's sake, which is like calling an archeologist, a parapsychologist or an _astrologist_ , a scientist. She doesn't know anything about real science –"

"Which is why I'm trying to hire the best of those who do," came from behind Mer.

Jeannie looked past her brother's reddening face to see Elizabeth Weir herself standing at the door.

"And I've been trying to get in touch with _you_ for nearly a year, Doctor McKay."

##  _MURDER IN THE WHITE HOUSE_ HAS A NEW CHAPTER AND A SURPRISING EPILOGUE  
October 8, 2001

 _WASHINGTON DC (Reuters) The murder of a sitting US President by one of his own because of a disagreement over foreign policy plays like a bad Hollywood thriller or the plot of a piece of fiction published two decades ago, not current events, but truth, they say, is stranger than fiction. Move over Tom Clancy and Stephen King, a new twist in the shocking revelations regarding the death of President Henry Hayes has revealed itself._

 _The indictment, impeachment and conviction of an Under Secretary of State, Shawn Grieves, for the murder of President Henry Hayes rocked the world nine months ago, but everyone assumed the worst was over and that the Conrad Commission would just be a formality, simply a fulfillment of a campaign promise and a covering of all the bases by a government shocked and reeling from the duplicity of one of their own. Even when the Commission began producing evidence that Grieves was not the head of the conspiracy, most people looked outward to the enemies that plague the United States. Maybe not to the Russian Federation, People's Republic of China or even North Korea, but somewhere perhaps among the terrorist states who have made no secret of their hated of the United States._

 _Friday saw the vote to impeach President Robert Kinsey from the House of Representatives, however, and earlier today the United States Senate unanimously voted to relieve President Kinsey of his office due to his arrest by the FBI and the evidence offered concerning his involvement in the murder of President Henry Hayes fourteen months ago._

 _Unlike governmental predecessors undergoing much less serious criminal investigations or facing articles of impeachment, Robert Kinsey refused to resign from his position when the allegations first surfaced, forcing the US Senate to commit to a four day around-the-clock session, in which the trial of the President was their only action. No one was truly surprised that Kinsey held strong to his proclamation of innocence, not when he'd already denied both his Cabinet and his Vice President's declaration that he was no longer capable of discharging his duties as the President. A temporary stepping down as President could have been overcome, but not so a trial for murder even if he is found innocent._

 _Nearly overlooked in the aftermath of the shock of a President being indicted and impeached for murder, Acting President Samantha Carter will be sworn in later this afternoon as the forty-second president and first woman to hold this high office. Immediately following her swearing in, President Carter will hold her first presidential press conference in the Rose Garden…_

Captain Walter Harriman never expected to be involved in such a high profile case, despite being promised that a position would open up for him at JAG once he passed the bar, when he elected to return to college and became an attorney. Although he was only doing the legal scut work: pulling paperwork, filling out forms and overseeing schedules and interviews, he was doing so on the behest of _the_ JAG of the Air Force, and some of the interviews and schedules involved the CSAF, General Maynard, the Secretary of the Air Force, George Hammond, _and_ the Acting President. As long as he didn't screw up, a promotion was inevitable when this was all over, and while that wasn't _why_ he was performing his duties to his absolute possible best, it would be a nice compensation for living with the insanity of what he'd uncovered.

He still found it hard to believe that a sitting President was well on his way to being convicted of murder – of murdering his predecessor so that he could become president – but the evidence already amassed was nearly irrefutable, especially with the recordings he was currently cataloging. Assuming, of course, they were proven to not have been doctored or out and out fabricated.

Colonel Maybourne was going to get away with his own participation in President's Hayes' death, but Walter doubted even the Judge Advocate could have found enough evidence to convict Kinsey without Maybourne's cooperation. Maybourne hadn't been the one who'd administered the nearly untraceable poison, but as far as Walter was concerned, being the one who had put Kinsey in touch with the assassin made Maybourne just as culpable.

It looked like Maybourne was ready to turn on a number of conspiracies that may or may not have also involved Kinsey, and the chances of taking down a group of traitors beyond Shawn Grieves, to uncover and jail the turncoats who had been putting together a secret government within the government made letting one lower-level scumbag go free worth it. Someone like Maybourne – no doubt they'd catch him up in something more at a later date.

## THREE DEAD IN HOSPITAL STANDOFF  
 _Alexandria Times  
December 2001_

 _MARYSVILLE, CA. The husband of Air Force Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey opened fire yesterday in the waiting room of the Beale Air Force Base hospital, killing two and wounding four more before turning his gun on himself. Two of the victims were also civilians, while the other four were Air Force personnel, there both as staff and patients. Eric Hailey, twenty-four, had been undergoing weekly psychiatric treatment to help him cope with his wife's Middle East deployment five months after they had wed. As per hospital and military procedure, Mr. Hailey had passed through metal detectors and, therefore, did not enter into the facility with the weapons that were found on him, but somehow he managed to get his hands on a …_

"Oh, my goodness!"

Steven Caldwell heard his wife's exclamation and hurried his steps into their kitchen, only to find her sitting calmly at the dining table with a newspaper and cup of coffee at her hand despite her exclamation. Relaxing minutely, he realized she must have read something that had set her off. He still made sure he placed his hand on her shoulder to warn her he was there before leaning over and giving her a quick kiss to her cheek. She turned up her face to ask for a better one which he was happy to offer.

"Something I need to know or worry about?" he asked afterwards, moving to the counter and pouring his own cup of coffee.

Larissa Caldwell frowned and tapped a blunt finger against her folded back newspaper. Steven didn't bother to try and make out the headlines – maybe he could have read the upside down letters fifteen years ago – but why bother? Larissa would read them out loud regardless.

"I know you'll think I'm silly, Steven, but I feel as if I lost a friend today. And it's so much worse because she was murdered."

Steven arched an eyebrow as he pushed off from the counter and moved to join her at the table. He set himself and the cup of coffee down before reaching out to cover her hand that still rested on the newspaper.

"It's not that I ever even met the woman," Larissa continued, her eyes downcast. "But I still must say that I considered her a friend …"

When she finally looked up, her eyelashes were damp, although no tears had spilled. Steven tightened his grip on her hand before letting go and sitting himself back in the chair, hoping his own expression was one of sympathy, despite having absolutely no idea what – who –she was alluding to. This posting as the commander of Bolling Air Force Base was much easier on the both of them and looked to be one they could count on lasting for a few years, so they'd bought a house off base that they could turn into a real home, but he still spent most of his day on base and didn't have a good handle on what friends his wife might have made.

"Some poor Air Force husband went postal at the base hospital at Beale and killed his psychiatrist along with a nurse, and wounded some airmen, doctors and other civilians before killing himself," Larissa sniffed. "The psychiatrist was Kate Heightmeyer."

Steven kept himself from shrugging, but still had to shake his head. The only psychiatrists he knew were those he'd been required to see after tough missions or as part of his annual FITREP, and while he might not know everything about his wife's life, he did know she was not seeing a psychiatrist herself.

"You know, the Kate of _Kate Cares_ ," Larissa prompted in the face of his continued clueless expression.

Unfortunately that didn't fill him in any better and he raised his brow to encourage her to keep going.

" _Kate Cares_ … it's the advise column in the _Air Force Times_ , well in all the papers for the Services. Where military spouses – hell even some of the soldiers – as well as their kids can write in anonymously about their problems or about things they just need advice on. Kate always gives – _gave_ – very common sense answers. She never belittled anyone, not even those who were foolishly ranting about President Carter and the probability of her asking Congress to repeal DADT. She always treated every question as a quandary worthy of Plato's contemplations instead of calling them on their stupidity."

Larissa ducked her head with a faint flush of sheepishness for a moment when Steven pursed his lips and cocked his own head.

"Okay, maybe not exactly stupid. But so many of the young wives are so _very_ young, and if they just bothered to do a little research on-line or just discussed things with their friends, they could have gotten their answers without airing their ignorance and dirty laundry for all and sundry to read about."

"You were a young military wife once," Steven said mildly, with a fond smile for how young the both of them had actually been when they'd married. High school and then college sweethearts, at least they'd been smart enough to listen to their parents and agree to wait until Steven had finished his first NATO deployment. The years of waiting had been tough on the both of them, and no doubt Larissa had had many concerns if not actual second thoughts, yet she'd been there when he'd returned from Geilenkirchen, Germany, had stood up with him in front of his squad and their families and accepted his ring. And she had stayed with him through moves to parts of America and the world that neither of them would have ever chosen voluntarily as a place to live, through all of the years that had followed.

He'd never regretted joining the Air Force, but his home was in Larissa, wherever he ended up deployed.

## A MILESTONE NO ONE WANTED TO REACH; AMERICAN LOSSES IN THE WAR IN AFGHANISTAN TOP 100  
 _January 22nd, 2002_

 _RAMSTEIN, Germany (Reuters) According to the Pentagon, Marine Major Vincent Castleman was killed by a bomb yesterday when his squad's humvee was hit by an RPG as the squad patrolled the road leading into Jalalabad. In a separate incident, Air Force F-15 Eagles out of the 455th Air Expeditionary Force came under SAM fire from Taliban held territory outside of Kandahar, with one being shot down. Although the F-15 pilot survived the incident, one of the helicopters involved in the subsequent search and rescue was also downed, killing the entire crew: Captain Mitchum Spender, Parajumper Noah Dexter and Flight Engineer Andrew Wallace. These four deaths push the number of US casualties since the official beginning of the conflict in Afghanistan in October of 2000 to one hundred and two._

 _Major Castleman, a graduate of the Annapolis US Navel Academy, was a decorated member of the Second Marine Expeditionary Force, and one month away from ending his final deployment in Afghanistan…_

The first thing Cameron Mitchell noticed when he awoke was that his doctor was hot. That observation didn't make up for the catheter and other uncomfortable tubes inserted into various parts of his body, but he was drugged enough that he wasn't going to voice any objections – or much of anything else, he noticed when all that came out of his mouth was a rasp and a cough. The doctor didn't pause in her work down by his leg after his cough, although she did look up and give him a tired smile. Somewhat miraculously, a straw appeared before him anyway, giving Cam the idea that this might not be the first time he'd awakened. Not that he remembered. No, the last thing he recalled was being up in his Eagle, pulling a few too many g's trying to avoid the chaff off his wingman as they both scrambled to avoid a volley from the SAM's below them.

Obviously he'd zagged somewhere instead of zigged.

With a greater effort than he expected, Cam moved his head just enough to see his glass holder, and started coughing again out of sheer surprise. This choking jag finally got his doctor's attention – and a few pats on the back from both her and the man who'd been Cam's main rival over the last two years although, of course, the Air Force did not encourage the type of mild one-upmanship the two of them had engaged in.

A full decade older than Cam, Lieutenant Colonel Lionel Pendergast also commanded an F-15 flight within their squadron and he'd been the top dog of the 455th Air Expeditionary Force for years – up until Cam's reassignment from the 33rd Fighter Wing. Cam's own tally from his previous deployments in _Operation Southern Watch_ had immediately cast the two of them into a not so silent competition, with both of them contending against each other for the priority missions.

Or they _had_ been, Cam abruptly realized.

From the level of disconnect he was feeling, Cam concluded his return to combat was going to be many weeks if not months in the future. If ever. A part of his brain really wanted to panic about that, but he was obviously on really, really good drugs and just couldn't be bothered. Not yet.

"So tell me, Doc, am I ever going to tango again?" he asked the pretty little gal with the nametag of Lam.

Cam was expecting the typical _did you ever tango in the first place?_ from her, and felt a momentary spike of panic when all he got was another half-hearted smile instead, and another slap of the straw against his chin from Pendergast. He hadn't sounded that ragged, had he?

Still, he dutifully sucked, as the water was just about the best damn thing he'd ever tasted, while he waited for his answer.

"You've broken both legs in multiple places, and have fractured your pelvis, Major Mitchell."

Whoa, his dream girl wasn't pulling her punches. Cam couldn't help reeling, both physically and mentally.

"With therapy you should return close to full function in both legs, although you'll have pins in your left ankle for the rest of your life, which will no doubt cause aches when the weather turns nasty," she continued and gave a brisk tug on the blanket that covered him to his waist. It was obvious she was done checking on the network of incisions below.

Cam had only gotten the briefest peek but it looked worse than an overhead of the LA freeways. Damn.

"Which, considering you came very close to losing your left foot, can definitely be considered a win," Lam added as she moved up to check the bandages around his neck and shoulder that Cam hadn't even noticed.

 _Damn_ good drugs.

"So I guess my days in a cockpit are over?" he asked more calmly than he felt.

It was Pendergast who answered this time. "Probably in an Eagle, but if you really work at it, you might be able to get back into an AWAC or a Stratotanker."

Oh, God, to become Uhura or Goober, when he'd been Tom Cruise in _Top Gun_.. Cam wasn't sure that the thought of filling gas tanks or playing Ma Bell didn't bring him more pain than that in his legs.

## GENERAL DIES JUST AS AFGHANISTAN HEATS UP  
 _American Forces News Service  
March 27, 2002_

 _Many in the world morn today with President Samantha Carter as she buries her father with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Brigadier General Jacob Carter's death leaves a huge hole in the United States' plans for the Middle East._

 _Despite having been diagnosed with lymphoma, the disease was thought to have been in remission, and General Carter was a shoe-in for command of the Air presence in Afghanistan, hopefully doing for the still forming International coalition what he did for NATO, although everyone agrees that bringing the Taliban down will undoubtedly be more difficult than defeating Slobodan Milosevic…_

Jack O'Neill wanted desperately to yell at someone. A wake, however, especially for the father of the President of the United States, wasn't an appropriate venue even if Jack felt he was entitled. It had been the deceased – and his daughter – who were the most to blame for Jack's frustration and current distress.

It had been bad enough when Maynard and Carter (the General) had reactivated his commission a couple years back. Jack had been done with the Air Force, had been two years retired and, even if Charlie hadn't happened, Jack would have been looking to hang up his wings by now. Black ops were games for younger men, for someone who didn't feel the outcome of every one of his missions deep in his bones whenever he struggled out of bed each morning.

Jack had only agreed to return to active duty during Kosovo because he'd been promised that once it was over, he was retired for good. He'd accepted the reinstatement – as a full bird Colonel – working near the front, nominally running any Air Force special ops, but not actively participating in any of those missions other than by offering suggestions and signing off on someone else's OPS SPECS. That promise had held for all of three days into the start of the air campaign, until one of their _Nighthawks_ had been shot down.

While the 21st SOS boys had gone out to handle the S&R operation, Jack had been tasked to prep _and_ accompany the team that would go in once the wreckage had been found. Their job had been to do their damnedest to make sure all avionics, cameras and computer interfaces were either recovered or destroyed before anyone else got to the wreckage. If Jack's team also managed to figure out how the Serbs had shot down a fucking stealth fighter while they were at it …

Then, like now, things hadn't gone quite to plan. Fortunately, a former Dust Devil had managed the rescue of the pilot and crew, but the Serbs and Russians had been all over the plane before Jack people got in. Truthfully, Jack had expected that little fiasco would have put to rest his active military career, even if it hadn't been his fault that now the Russians – and whoever else _they'd_ been in bed with – were working to reverse engineer America's stealth technology.

The CSAF and Secretary of the Air Force Hammond had both refused to allow President Kinsey to make him the scapegoat, however, so instead of the boot, Jack had gotten a promotion and a refusal to let him separate from the Air Force as he'd been promised. Now he was being saddled with the full responsibility over the US's air presence in the Middle East, as Jacob Carter's replacement. At least Carter (the President), had backed away from handing Jack the additional responsibility over the _Coalition's_ air assets, recommending that, instead, it should be handled by his Russian counterpart, Major General Gregor Chekov.

This was all payback, no doubt, not just for bucking Jacob, Maynard and certain other CO's orders over the years (like Hammond – _especially_ Hammond), but also for his gentle discouragement of the crush Jacob's daughter had once had on him when she'd been recommended to ACSC just after his divorce from Sara. (God, Jack had hated the heat and humidity of Alabama when he'd been putting in ten months teaching _International Security and Military Studies_.)

 _Presidential_ paybacks were definitely a stone cold bitch.

##### Society News  
Washington Post  
August 19, 2002

 _Victoria Lynn Nelson and David Patrick Sheppard were married August 18, 2002, at Cathedral of Saint Matthew The Apostle on Rhode Island Avenue, in Washington DC. The Bishop Steven Mahoney performed the double-ring ceremony._

 _The bride is the daughter of Marjorie Nelson of Kingston, Ontario. The groom is the son of renowned business magnate, Patrick Sheppard, and his late wife, Bethany Russell Karris, of Brandywine, Maryland._

 _Presented in marriage by Henry Foster, the bride was attended by Colleen Fennel, as maid of honor. Bridesmaids were …_

When the clapping started, Dave Sheppard quickly brought his new bride in close to his body and looked for an escape route, not completely convinced they'd been found out and recognized, but unwilling to take any chances. Vicki spied the cause first, however. Incongruously, she also began clapping and before he could ask, Dave saw the reason.

Returning soldiers, from Afghanistan, Iraq or wherever, with what now seemed to be all of JFK's Concourse A in Terminal 4, clapping, cheering and otherwise 'welcoming home the troops'. Vicki didn't call him on not joining in, but Dave wasn't sure if his moment of feeling weird about it wasn't guilt – or just extreme embarrassment over the hoopla and schmaltz. He appreciated; at least in abstract, what the US military was doing over there, and had even anonymously made a few large donations to various veterans organizations over the years. The acknowledging going on now, however, was simply a retread of a scripted Hollywood moment and, going by the uncomfortable faces on some of the soldiers not otherwise being distracted by friends and family, Dave wasn't the only one thinking this.

He started to coax Vicki away; he might have agreed to forego using the company jet for his honeymoon, but that didn't mean he was also going to forego spending their ridiculous amount of nonproductive wait time in the first class lounge. Before he turned away himself, he met the gaze of one of the more uncomfortable looking soldiers and stopped dead, in shock and recognition.

It was John.

It might have been most of six years since he'd seen his brother, but the hair and the look of unease when Dave was recognized in turn, was unmistakable.

Dave stood frozen for a few seconds more, trying desperately to figure out if he should make some sort of further acknowledgement, and was then relived, though quite surprised, to see a woman throw herself into John's arms. She wasn't John's ex, Nancy, but she was certainly familiar with his brother, crying and clinging, and it was almost funny how stiff John looked in turn.

Well, if John hadn't bothered to let anyone know he'd gotten married again, Dave figured he could get away without saying anything about his own first wife. Only Vicki noticed he'd been stationary and staring, and somehow she also recognized John, even though she'd never met and had barely heard that Dave had a brother.

Dammit, Marie must have pulled out the family photo albums to show Vicki.

"Oh, my god, Dave, is that your brother?" Vicki started dragging him over before Dave could deny or confirm an answer, making an escape impossible without also having to explain a few of the family's skeletons that he'd decided to wait to mention after the honeymoon – if ever.

"Major Sheppard!"

Dave watched John stiffen further in the woman's embrace upon hearing his name, before leaning over to whisper something to her, then pull away and turn.

"Vicki Nelson," Vicki announced, holding out her hand as they closed the distance. "Well, Vicki Sheppard as of yesterday, though I am keeping my maiden name in my business dealings. When Dave mentioned you'd be unable to attend the wedding, he didn't say anything about you coming back to the States in time to see us off. I'm so happy to get this chance to meet you."

Dave hadn't said, because Dave hadn't known – hadn't bothered, actually, to invite John to the wedding. John hadn't answered any correspondence in years, so it wasn't like Dave had thought John would bother this time.

For his part, John took Vicki's hand automatically; some things were just ingrained, especially after all of the lectures and lessons they'd had while growing up. He then flinched when Vicki pulled him into a hug at the end of her introduction.

"Ah, congratulations," John offered, his expression a bland, polite mask when he met Dave's look, over Vicki's head. "Dave," he then acknowledged.

Dave nodded in turn. "John." He then looked pointedly at the woman who was watching them with a nonplussed expression on her face despite the tears she'd been shedding upon her greeting to John.

"This is Maggie Holland," John made the introduction.

Dave raised his brow, not recognizing the family name. John just scowled in response, though his face smoothed out into the damn mask as he extracted himself when Vicki turned to the woman with another outstretched hand.

"Holland?" So the two of you aren't – "

"John escorted my husband's body home," the Holland woman filled in the cued silence, turning this chance meeting into something even more awkward than his and John's fiction of politeness.

Vicki simply pulled her into a hug too. "Oh, I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Holland. Yours, too, John," Vicki added from the woman's shoulder as they clung to one another for a few long moments, empathy and grief creating a connection that only women seemed able to pull off even as strangers, and with no trace of self-consciousness.

John looked as uncomfortable as Dave felt, though the hint of anger showing through gave Dave his own moment of bonding with his brother. Dave knew the anger was for whatever had happened and not directed his way, the anger covering pain in a very familiar fashion. It was suddenly easy to reach out to clasp John's shoulder in compassion, though not as easy to ignore his own hurt when John's look turned wary and bewildered at the gesture.

Had things gotten that bad between them that John couldn't accept comfort?

"I don't know how long you're here, or where you were planning on staying, but you can use the townhouse in Falls Church if it would be useful," Dave offered in an attempt to breach their distance. He drove by Arlington every time he chose to stay late working at the Sheppard Utilities headquarters building. "Dad left for a business deal in London right after the wedding and won't be back for at least a week if you'd rather stay at Brandywine Falls. Most of the staff was given the week off, but Mrs. McClusky will still be there, if home would work better?"

John closed Dave's fingers over his keys before he could work either of them loose, then shook his head. "We're taking Lyle back to Phoenix for burial. Thank you for the offer, though."

Dave nodded and took a step back, gently pulling Vicki back with him. "You probably need to be on your way then."

"Yeah. And you. Leaving on your honeymoon?"

"We're spending a couple of weeks in Ireland first. Sir Adagio qualified for Highclere this year. Vicki's his trainer. Dad brought her on four years ago, after I expressed an interest in getting the stable back into competitions." He caught John's surprise and tried not to feel defensive, to assume it was for restoring the stables and not because he'd married beneath the Sheppard dynasty, as many had already said. Before, John had never cared about that kind of thing – even if Nancy had been from a proper family – his refusal to bow to pressure and perception just one more point of contention between John and his family. Once, Dave had cared about what his friends and peers would say, as much as their father still did. Before he'd met and fallen in love with Vicki.

"After Ireland, we figure we'll take a couple of weeks seeing China, then either on to Australia or New Zealand, though we're still trying to make up our minds on the end portion." Dave was babbling now, something John looked amused about.

"I'd pick New Zealand," John offered with a hint of the warmth that had been missing between them for too many years, reminding Dave that, yes, they had once been close. Not just because of the horses. "Oh, and good luck at Highclere."

Obviously, good-bye too, even before John neatly tucked Maggie Holland back next to his side.

"Take care of yourself, John … Major," Dave couldn't resist adding when the mask returned to John's face.

Abstractly, he'd known what his brother did was dangerous. Nancy had cried and complained often enough about it when she'd come over for comfort or commiseration during her and John's marriage. Until this moment, however, Dave hadn't really understood that John could die because of the life he'd chosen, that he was at war for his country instead of just playing the rebel against their dad. The realization made Dave feel petty – and resentful, thanks to his own habit of using anger to cover guilt or pain. He'd done the right thing, played the good and dutiful son by staying near home and allowing their father to groom him for taking over the family business, even though John had always had the better head for sums and statistics.

"It was wonderful meeting you both," Vicki started offering her own goodbyes, not in ignorance and obliviousness to the undercurrents swirling between Dave and his brother, but allowing the conventions of society to once again make an awkward moment bearable.

Or even more uncomfortable, Dave thought when he caught the look Vicki then sent his direction. Yeah, he had some explaining to do. Also seven or so hours in a plane where he wasn't going to be able to escape somehow and get out of it.

"You, too," Mrs. Holland responded automatically.

Dave used the pause that followed as an excuse to look at his watch, making a vague gesture to the busy airport around them. John nodded and in the next moment they were both turning away, leaving to go about their business as if they were merely acquaintances. As if they hadn't stopped to greet one another at all.

Sometimes, Dave hated their father – and himself – as much as John did.

## HAS THE PRESIDENT OUTED HERSELF?  
 _November 2002_

 _CAMP LE MONIER, (Djibouti). In a stroke as bold and unprecedented as her own elevation to the presidency, today President Carter talked Congress into repealing the controversial Don't Ask Don't Tell (DADT) policy for the US Armed Forces. While this could have been an opportunity to return to the more draconic days of dishonorable discharges for servicemen considered to be gay or lesbian, President Carter instead has encouraged the modification of the United States Military Code of Conduct to allow openly gay and lesbian soldiers to continue to serve. Can a federal constitutional amendment protecting gay marriage be far behind?_

 _Citing the last few years of successful international coalitions with countries who have already accepted gays and lesbians in their military forces, President Carter has also challenged the constitutionality of not allowing willing people to serve based on their sexual preferences, under the current discrimination and hate crime laws on the books. Additionally, she's citing the separation of Church and State as defined in the Constitution to counter laws and policy being set by the various Christian and other religious conservatives who decry this act as yet one more piece of evidence of the moral decay of American society._

 _Not so surprisingly, millionaire industrialist David Ballard is publicly raising the question of President Carter's own sexuality in the wake of this decision and her breaking off the engagement to the Stark Consortium Chairman's business rival, Alec Colson – citing the President's 'unnatural' relationship and closeness to her personal physician, Janet Frasier. Mister Colson immediately spoke out in the President's defense, blaming a mutual inability to put anything – or anyone – before their respective public responsibilities as the only reason for their break-up, not because of any sort of sexual incompatibility. Expect the camps on both sides of the issue to become more vocal and visible in their arguments as the change is put into practice. Of course, the only opinions and concerns that truly matter are the ones yet to be expressed by the million plus active servicemen who are going to have to adapt to this sweeping change …_

"Fucking reporters," Sergeant Boyan Stackhouse bitched as he tried to maneuver their humvee around the extra vehicles and bodies that were all but blocking access to the motor pool staging area.

Colonel Dave Dixon absolutely agreed with his Gunny, but he kept his peace and simply let the rest of his squad give voice to their mutual frustrations. Dave was keeping quiet not just because he was their CO (and supposed to be the one they looked to for all types of leadership), but also because – at the moment – he'd also be a fucking, if unwilling, hypocrite. Just before leaving for their last sortie, he'd reluctantly agreed to allow one of the embedded reporters to ride along on his company's _next_ patrol, a scheduled sweep around the Taliban's stronghold in Kandahar.

Once the order had come down that this was going to happen like it or not – and after Dickwad Everett decided it was going to be one of the Force Recon platoons in the hope that the reporter would be too scared to ask for this type of access more than once – Dave had volunteered Captain Bosworth and Gunny Stackhouse's platoon before Everett foisted it off to Major Neumann and Bravo Company. Bosworth's platoon was the best, not just in mission success, but also because they weren't about to embarrass themselves or the Marines in front of one of the vultures, unlike Neumann – who was here to tout himself and his own career instead of that of his men. Since Bosworth was only a Captain, Dave's tagging along wouldn't raise any eyebrows either.

At least the reporter, Emmett Bregman, had a reputation of fairness and of being a real reporter, unlike so many of the _news readers_ , who seemed disappointed every time they went out and weren't able to catch the baby killers committing their atrocities on camera.

"Sergeant, Sergeant, over here!" one of those vultures called out the minute Stacks put the vehicle in park and popped open his door. "What do you think about the President's order to rescind DADT?" the blonde from _Inside Access_ , according to the cameraman who was keeping her in focus, clarified.

Dave slid out of the vehicle himself and leaned over the hood, giving her an obvious once over that would leave no doubt as to his own sexual preference before offering her – Julia Donovan his brain finally supplied – an answer before Stacks could.

"Tell me, darling," Dave smirked with a silent apology to his wife back home. "There any proof that someone not considered straight also don't shoot straight? No? Then I – and any of my men here – don't give a flying fuck who someone spends their nights with, as long as it ain't with one of the enemy. We're in a war zone, not standing in line at the disco. No one's got the time to make a pick up, straight or bent. We don't even got time to jack-off – "

"Ah, thank you, Colonel … ah."

"Dixon, darling. Colonel Dave Dixon of the 3rd Force Reconnaissance Company," he smirked again. If Ms. Donovan was embarrassed either by his language, his attention or by someone admitting they jacked themselves after she'd already been here for five months… well, she'd probably better just skedaddle back to her cushy, air-conditioned trailer in LA and plan exposes on budget overruns and political junkets.

Or she could always ask for a transfer away from the Marines to cover one of the pussy bases like Bagram.

## SCANDAL ONCE MORE ROCKS THE PHYSICS COMMUNITY  
 _By Julie Donovan_

 _June 27, 2003| Last fall it was Jan Hendrik Schön, admitting he made mistakes in his claims of groundbreaking research in nanotechnology for electronics and computer circuitry advances, and losing not only his position at Bell Laboratories, but also his Outstanding Young Investigator Award, and there are rumors that the University of Konstanz is considering revoking his PhD. Yesterday, the world of physics was rocked once more, as Doctor Brendan Gall and his partner Paul Abrams have been fired from Pegasus Group for falsifying data as well as appropriating another scientist's work and claiming it as their own. This is the second highly public dismissal of Elizabeth Weir's cherry-picked cadre of scientific elites, the first having been Damon Peterson only thirteen months after his hiring, for selling proprietary information to one of Pegasus' competitors._

 _Abrams and Gall's experiments on …_

"I am here to see Doctor Rodney McKay. I am his attorney," Richard added when the desk sergeant failed to recognize even his demeanor, much less his identity. True, Richard didn't actually practice criminal law and, therefore, had never been inside of a police station before, but his face had been on the cover of _Newsweek_ , only two weeks ago, and he'd been on the cover of _Forbes_ three times in eight years. Sure this man read something other than crossword puzzles and comic books?

When the sergeant still just cocked his brow, Richard suppressed his sigh. "These other gentlemen are my associates." My bodyguards, he didn't say, although that was all they were and the closest they came to knowing the law was understanding their rights and privileges of when they could or could not carry their weapons. This was one of those 'not' situations.

Richard set down his briefcase and pulled his wallet out of his suit coat pocket. He presented his ID, along with a business card: _Richard Woolsey, Esq., Pegasus Holding Group_.. Markham and Stackhouse were at least on the ball enough to follow suit, without needing to be instructed.

The sergeant looked down at something, then took the offered IDs before checking them over and making a notation before handing everything back. "Your guy is still with the arresting officers. He hasn't been processed yet in Booking." The officer raised his hand to stop Richard from speaking when he would have, and continued, "I'll inform them of your arrival and see if they're willing to allow you to come up."

"Is there a reason my client hasn't been booked yet?" Richard asked.

The officer shrugged. "Any number of reasons, including the one where we're overrun with the number of eggheads having been arrested in the last four hours. Who knew those kinds of guys had it in them," he then added, remarkably cheerfully, Richard thought. "McKay is in the middle of the alphabet."

Richard bit back anything else he might have said and simply offered the man a tight smile and a gracious nod to encourage him to go about making the phone call. It was bad enough he'd needed to come down here; Richard certainly didn't want to spend any significant time 'hanging out' in a police station. He didn't bother mentioning that McKay hadn't actually called him; that he was here so quickly because he'd seen the news report of the near riot that had broken out at the Energy Symposium McKay and several of the other Pegasus scientific employees had been attending, and he'd simply anticipated Elizabeth's request and chartered the company's Gulfstream and young Markham to pilot it.

Somehow, Richard feared, this wasn't going to be his only time in such a position when dealing with Rodney McKay. McKay was practically pathological in his disagreements with other scientists. Although, Richard had to admit to himself, based on what was being shown on the news, Malcom Tunney had thrown the first punch. Whoever had thought it would be a good idea to invite Tunney, Nicolas Rush and Rodney McKay to speak at the same event, deserved whatever lawsuit that might come out of trashing the Adolphus Hotel's ballroom during Rush's keynote dinner address. Especially coming so soon after the unfortunate business with Gall and Abrams. Tunney's sound bite accusing McKay of fabricating his data on par with Jan Hendrik Schön would be the first piece of evidence Richard would introduce if the assault charges actually went to trial, and the footage of Rush holding McKay back when Tunney took a swing in reaction to whatever McKay had said in return, would be the last thing he needed to present. He rather suspected they'd not need to go into details on the science to prove or repudiate Tunney's claims. Actually, Richard expected to arrive at a settlement, with Tunney picking up all of the costs, fines and damages, at least when it came to McKay's part in the brawl that had followed.

He just needed to hold onto those thoughts when dealing with McKay, and not let the man get under _his_ skin.

## NEW EYE CANDY OR NEWEST BUSINESS CONQUEST?  
 _December 09, 2003_

 _ALEXANDRIA (Virginia) Just months after her very public breakup with long-time partner and lover, Dr. Simon Wallace, it appeared Elizabeth Weir had found herself a little sexual healing with another medical doctor. The renowned Scottish geneticist, Carson Beckett, had been observed escorting Doctor Weir to a number of political and social events throughout the summer season. That, of course, turned out to just be her wooing and then showing off Pegasus' newest acquisition, at least according to the subsequent announcement that Dr. Beckett had agreed to leave Cambridge and his position with the European Bioinformatics Institute upon his completion of the Human Genome Project to head up the biotech research division of Doctor Weir's Pegasus Holding Group._

 _So, is the same thing happening with Elizabeth Weir's escort for the Christmas season? Or has Santa put something special under her tree?_

 _Just as his acceptance of a commission in the Air Force instead of taking his place with his brother David as heir apparent to Sheppard Industries made headlines twelve years ago, so too is our darling Johnny's return to the bosom of the Sheppard family environs. When he is not spending his time on the arm of Elizabeth Weir, Major John Sheppard, USAF (ret.) can usually be found on the golf links. Rumor has it he's been asked to redesign the Old Course at our venerable Homestead, and while golf pro doesn't seem to be a fit in Doctor Weir's brave new corporate world, no one can deny that the two look good together. Or that Johnny isn't much more suited to rubbing shoulders with the Beltway Barons and the DC Oligarchy than poor Dr. Wallis, even if he is only the second son of utilities magnate Patrick Sheppard …_

"You should know better than to believe what you read in any newspaper, Jennifer," Radek Zelenka scolded with a frown and set down the sandwich from which he'd been about to take another bite. "Even if they were not propaganda outlets for editors and local advertisers, Society Column is nothing more than gossip, fueled by paparazzi put in print.

Jennifer Keller sighed over her own lunch. "All I am saying is that it would be nice to see Elizabeth dating someone a little more stable than Simon, and that John Sheppard is certainly easy on the eyes. He seems to be a lot more personable than his looks or upbringing suggest, too."

Radek snorted.

"Hey, I may be new to this whole …" she waved her arm to encompass, Radek supposed, the campus or the concept behind Elizabeth's grand vision, "but even I know newspapers only print stories that sell copies and advertising, with little regard to telling the truth. Chippewa Falls may have been small town, but I did go to college at Loyola and completed my residency at Cedars-Sinai. Besides, your beloved socialistic internet isn't any better, you know. Not when anyone can make up their own facts about anything and have people believing them for truth. Wikipedia is as evil as it is useful."

Radek wasn't sure if the way Jennifer crinkled her nose when she was teasing or the fact that she'd thrown one of her French fries – pardon, Freedom fries – at him was cuter. What he knew, though, was that she wasn't _consciously_ flirting with him, more the pity, since _all_ of her actions were very cute. But Jennifer was also only a medical doctor (not that she hadn't already proven she could hold her own amidst the myriad of egos and geniuses that Elizabeth had begun to gather) and very young, barely older than his beloved little sister Tatia would have been now, had Tatia survived a childhood of too many illnesses.

While Radek still considered himself a viable romantic lead in the movie of his life, at thirty-six he was also at the stage where he was looking for companionship – looking for someone to grow old with – than for passion. He'd already married for passion once. He knew, intellectually, that he had the capacity to find someone who might mean as much to him as Anna had, yet he no longer had the burning desire or need to do so. It wasn't so much that he feared reliving such a devastating loss again – he'd always prided himself on looking to the positive while most of his family, friends and colleagues chose to dwell on the hardships and unfairness of it all – but Radek was older and, hopefully, wiser than he'd been at nineteen or even twenty-five. He knew that with this maturity he'd found a great appreciation for comfort and even routine, be it in his research or in his relationships. Jennifer deserved someone who could not just appreciate but _match_ her passion. Deserved it just as Elizabeth Weir did.

This was why Radek was so happy to see Simon Wallace go. Why, too, he could almost wish that John Sheppard was the Prince Charming the gossip rags wanted him to be. The engineer in Radek, however, was much more excited to soon be meeting John Sheppard the aeronautics innovator, not John Sheppard, new boy toy.

"I am sorry to be bearing bad news, then, Jennifer," Radek said once he finished the fry she'd thrown and stole a couple more off of her plate. "But John Sheppard is the design wizard behind Zoom Aeronautics – the company that has a craft promising to win the X PRIZE by building and launching spacecraft capable of carrying three people to 100 kilometers above the earth's surface, twice within two weeks," he elaborated at her adorable look of confusion.

"So is Elizabeth looking to bring just him into the fold, or his whole company?" Jennifer asked.

The better question was why Sheppard was thinking of leaving his company in the first place. Why was he considering giving up owning part of one company to become a simple employee in another? Especially why would he leave a company that, by all reports, had bright future and a potential ten million dollar payoff?

Of course, Elizabeth was steadily making a career of talking exactly such people as John Sheppard away from their single pursuits to become part of something so much more, Radek being an exception since he'd just been small cog when she'd initially tapped him to head up the new science research division and help her recruit the best and brightest. Like Rodney McKay, Peter Grodin, Carson Beckett, Jennifer Keller … and John Sheppard.

"From what I understand, Major Sheppard is now the only survivor of the six Air Force comrades who founded Zoom Aeronautics," Radek indulged Jennifer in her desire for more gossip, and himself in watching her expressive face. "The widow of one of those now deceased managed day-to-day operations during their deployments from the beginning, so I doubt he would wrest the company away from her even if he has the majority of its stock. And Mrs. Holland has family living nearby who do not work for Zoom, I seem to recall reading, so relocation could be a major trauma." He shrugged. "But nothing has been confirmed other than he has agreed to come work for Elizabeth."

Jennifer frowned, but then immediately perked up. "Well, if Sheppard will be sticking around, it could still happen between him and Elizabeth. Elizabeth has a better chance at meeting outside people than we do, but let's face it; most of us are undoubtedly going to end up involved in office romances. Pegasus is practically its own town now. Once Elizabeth signs off on the new rec building, the golf course and the Atlantis project, we won't need to leave to take a vacation elsewhere other _than_ to meet new people or visit family."

Radek couldn't help but smile at Jennifer's enthusiasm. "Pegasus is hiring an average of ten people a day, so you could be right, Jennifer." That enthusiasm would be a good match to the new man Sumner and Bates had just hired to run second shift security. "Speaking of which, have you had chance to meet Aiden Ford yet?"

## DISASTER RELIEF IS JUST A CLICK AWAY  
 _By the CNN Wire Staff  
May 11, 2004_

 _HOLLYWOOD, CA (CNN) Hollywood Knows Best. Celebrity telethons are nothing new. What started with Leonard Goldenson and Dennis James fund-raising for Cerebral Palsy back in the fifties and was perfected by Jerry Lewis for Muscular Dystrophy, has now become the ubiquitous way to tug on your purse strings even as they are tugging on your heart. Any disease, natural disaster or the cause célèbre de jour seems to have a telethon these days, most of them coming out of Hollywood. The latest, put on by mega producer Al Martel, is to call attention to the devastation throughout America's breadbasket, as violent thunderstorms spawned a torrent of tornadoes and widespread flooding last week that left hundreds dead or injured, and thousands more homeless._

While President Carter was quick to tour the devastated area, visiting each of the states' governors and pledging federal aid through the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), Hollywood had vowed to fill any gap with their two hour telethon, to be aired Friday evening at 8:00pm on all the major networks, including cable's FX, USA, TNT and our parent station, CNN. On tap are the usual suspects, Bono, George Clooney and Angelina Jolie, agreeing to show themselves to raise money for the displaced, the homeless and the orphaned. In addition, there will be musical performances by Sarah McLachlan, Willie Nelson, and John Mellancamp, plus two documentary segments filmed and directed by Rob Marshall and Daniel Jackson …

Sam had forgotten how much fun it was to go to a suburban shopping mall. She hadn't taken the opportunity all that often even before she'd been elected and had people to go shopping for her; while on foreign deployment, she'd had the PX, and even once she'd been posted to DC, she'd been quick to embrace on-line shopping through her computer as more and more businesses began embracing the new technology. The fact that she was here with Janet and Janet's newly adopted daughter, Cassidy, contributed to her enjoyment; vicariously participating in Cassie's excitement and disappointment when Janet agreed or denied Cassie's picks for her back-to-school supplies and clothing was innocently satisfying.

Sam was honest enough to also admit that a large part of her fun in this was because she was pretending to be someone else, complete with a dark wig and fake English accent. She'd been a tourist or on duty in cities around the world, when various world leaders closed down streets or shops from the public for their own private trips, and had vowed not to do that to her own constituents, not when it wasn't absolutely necessary. She might be the President of the United States – the first female President – instantly recognizable due to all the press (good and bad) that she'd received ever since she'd fallen into the crosshairs of a world-wide spotlight but, surprisingly, very few people actually recognized her when she was face to face in front of them. Or maybe they just didn't believe it really could be her shopping at _Hot Topic_ for Cassie's skull-covered sneakers.

Her disguise was helped by the fact that she didn't have a cadre of Secret Service people following her around, just Malcolm Barrett, since they wouldn't let her out without having any protection, and a couple of Air Force guys – and Janet, of course. Who was in her own disguise, foregoing her uniform that they'd both been careful to have her always filmed in when referencing her as the primary White House physician. Again, Sam thought some of their anonymity was the Clark Kent factor and people disbelieving what they were seeing, especially since Janet hadn't made a public announcement regarding her adoption of one of the handful of kids left orphaned by the horrible storms weeks past.

Being a pseudo-parent was turning out to be fun too, though Sam knew it wouldn't always be, and that her influence over Cassie's future was only as much as Janet granted her; Janet was Cassie's guardian and new parent, while Sam was simply an interested bystander when all was said and done. Well, unless something happened to Janet, and then, depending on Cassie's age at that time, Sam would legally become Cassidy Lester's new guardian.

Not something that Sam wanted to think about, just as she was getting damn fed up with hearing the ongoing argument her two alternate protectors had been engaged in all afternoon.

"Need I remind you both that you are officers and, allegedly, gentlemen," she hissed at Young and Telford as the group of them moved into the food court. "You may not be in violation of Article 134 while in your own units, but while you're working for me, dammit, unit cohesion is mandatory, and I will sack the both of you, not to mention telling the CSAF and maybe the SECAF as to why, and let one of them bring you up on charges."

It was telling of the level of her anger, that Sam's accent was slipping, and she didn't need Barrett pointing it out with a gentle touch on her arm, but she reigned in her desire to snap at him, too. She'd really wanted this opportunity to act like a real person instead of the Leader of the Free World, wanted to give Janet and Cassie this time to bond outside of the spotlight that would end up on them soon enough. Anyone who fucked that up was going on her shit list, and at the moment, she was thinking McMurdo in Antarctica might be a good fit for one of them, while something closer to the Artic Circle would do for the other, and Young's wife (who he was supposedly separated from, though she certainly wouldn't have guessed that from Young's current fit of raging jealousy) could pick which end of the world she wanted to live in – or tell the both of them to go hang.

"Cassie and I are going to over to _Cinnabons_." Janet set her own hand on Sam's arm. "We'll pick you up a pecan roll. Malcolm, something for you?" Janet had her own way of expressing her displeasure with people, especially fellow Air Force officers.

"A classic, please, and a Raspberry Lemonade."

"Oh, me too with the lemonade," Sam added, still feeling weird after all this time ordering something citrus-based, even though she hadn't dated Rodney McKay in years. It was like her reflex to salute the CSAF or Jack O'Neill, habits long ingrained even though, technically, she was their superior officer now.

That was fun to think about too.

## ONE GIANT STEP FOR PUBLIC VENTURES IN SPACE  
 _Sky & Space.Com  
By Guest Reporter Emmett Bregman  
October 5, 2004_

 _MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA – Yesterday the X PRIZE Foundation awarded the largest prize in history, the $10 million Ansari X Prize, to Scaled Composites for their craft_ SpaceShipOne.

 _To win the prize, famed aerospace designer Burt Rutan and financier Paul Allen led the first private team to build and launch a spacecraft capable of carrying three people to 100 kilometers above the earth's surface, twice within two weeks._

 _Scaled Composites was one of twenty-six companies who participated, and for a while it appeared as if Zoom Technologies would take the prize, their first test flight of_ Holland's Dream _on September 29 going higher, farther and longer than_ SpaceShipOne's _initial test. Unfortunately, when it came time for the second flight for Zoom, their craft experienced launch problems and could not attain the required altitude to the edge between atmosphere and space, leading many to speculate the departure by craft designer John Sheppard a month earlier might have cost the company the prize as well as a valuable employee/part owner._

 _A spokesman for Zoom Technologies read a prepared statement by Mr. Sheppard, that he intentionally left the company he helped found before the trials, stating that it should be about the spacecraft, not the designer …_

"Mr. Sheppard," the tech who'd identified himself only as Chuck called out to John despite them being the only two people left in the room: a lair of monitors and equipment John had only ever seen at NASA – only this arrangement looked a lot more cutting edge.

"It's John, please," John corrected as he rose from the very nice waiting area that was sectioned off in the front of the room. "Or Shep, if John's too informal for you. I don't think I've been Mister Sheppard since parochial school, and it's too late to start answering to that now."

Chuck nodded. "I was eight years in the Canadian Armed Forces myself, so I get what you're saying. Most everyone around here feels the same, including Doctor Weir but, well, she's always going to be Doctor Weir to most of us despite her own wishes. I think only the corporate attorneys under Mr. Woolsey, Doctor McKay, and maybe a few more of the European scientists prefer their titles to be used when being addressed. Most of the ex-military just use someone's last name, while the civilians use given names and family names indiscriminately, depending on how they've initially been introduced. Doctor McKay, in turn, usually just points and snaps his fingers at you if he wants something, as he claims his brain cells are far too valuable to waste memorizing useless trivia. When he does try to use your name, eight times out of ten, he gets it wrong."

"Doctor McKay sounds like a pompous asshole."

"Oh, he is," Chuck agreed with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows. "The trouble is, he's also the genius he claims to be, and damn creative with an insult. Most people would pay good money to be witness to one of his tirades, as long as it's not directed their way. I'm afraid you'll most likely be a common witness _and_ target, since he's head of the Research division and, technically, you're heading up the newly devised Special Projects and most of those projects will fall under his purview, even if you report directly to Doctor Weir. To that end, your badge needs to be all access. That's why I waited to do yours after the rest of the new recruits, sorry. I'm going to need a few more scans and samples from you to put the proper biometrics together."

"Don't biometric systems have a few inherent problems?" John asked as Chuck started taking his fingerprints. He wasn't complaining – the military had been invasive in its own way, after all. But he was curious about how Pegasus had decided to deal with them.

"You mean what happens when the data gets compromised?"

John nodded and accepted the wet wipe. "Among other things."

"Our biggest worry is someone getting hold of one of our people and causing them bodily harm." Chuck acknowledged. "Like cutting off a thumb or a hand, or gouging out one of their eyes."

Of course he'd timed the gouging example to coincide with John leaning forward to have his iris scanned.

"That's the main reason Doctor Weir and Mr. Woolsey always travel with bodyguards, and why they and half of their bodyguards have RFID chips imbedded somewhere in their body. For folks like Radek Zelenka or Doctor McKay, well, both have refused the RFID chips and aren't real friendly with the bodyguards, so their safety needs are pretty much determined on a case by case basis. Fortunately, neither of them leaves Pegasus very often, especially Doctor McKay after that fracas last year in Dallas. Most of the geeks don't, actually, since you can pretty much find any type of entertainment on site. I need a DNA cheek swab now, _Shep_ ," he instructed with a wide grin.

John complied. "What about the data getting corrupted or compromised," he asked when Chuck finished with the giant Q-tip. "No one can change their fingerprints or iris shape, so once the badge is issued … "

"That was the stumper for a while." Chuck pulled up a camera and hooked it up to a hand scanner, but pointed to a railing first. "Chin here, please, and try not to blink."

John was okay until the flash, then needed to squeeze his eyes shut a few times to get his vision back.

"Right now, we're going with a randomized distorter for the bio records," Chuck continued, getting John to do a palm scan next. "One or more of the patterns I'm recording now gets distorted a certain percentage so that, ostensibly, the master prints can never be compromised, so we can cancel badges and reissue a new one if it gets lost or the current configuration gets compromised. The computers keep track of the timing and the distortion percentages and makes temporary files that constantly get updated to your badge when you go through a security check point. Which reminds me; even if you think you've just misplaced yours, let us know right away. It's a lot easier issuing a new badge than shutting down buildings because you're being recorded in two places at once. Okay, now speak this text in the mic."

John took the PDA he was handed and looked down, trying not to laugh at what he read and start off with a distorted voice print. "'Are you telling me that you built a time machine … out of a DeLorean?'"

"Another random security feature," Chuck said with a grin after John was done with that. "We generate random quotes from movies for voice recognition, updated every three to six months. That's so no one can record your voice or put together their own random tape from public speeches or appearances to try and fool our system. You'll also be given a distress code every week to memorize, individual to you and your profile that, once again, the computer keeps track of. Now, that last thing we need is for you to come up with at least a nine digit alphanumeric passcode," he instructed, bringing up a keyboard.

"While I and a few others will have access to most of your file, this passcode will be stored on the system in a file no one can access. If you forget it, you'll need to come down here and go through about half of this procedure again to generate a replacement. So don't give it out to anyone."

"Your security system doesn't require use of all of these checks at every check point, do they?" John asked, a little daunted. He took a minute to come up with a code he would remember easy enough, but something that someone else wouldn't be likely to guess. Russian literature names with a number sequence significant only to him were always a good start.

Chuck shook his head. "Different areas have different requirements. Most everyone else gets by with either the palm or iris scan. We need to do all of this for you because you're being issued one of the few override badges that grants you access to every building on the campus, The only areas you can't get into will be private offices, people's homes and apartments, though your badge will get you into any lobby, and specifically locked cabinets, storage containers or private lockers. We do still use physical keys for some things; I believe you got your apartment set during orientation?"

John nodded.

"Good. Now, it's going to take three or four minutes for all of the information to get processed, then to generate the random patterns and sequence them, so if you have any questions, now is a good time to ask."

"You're counting on most of your security to be managed by computers and electronic systems. What happens if your systems get compromised?"

"First off, the computer's internal encryption and security system is the same one the Federal Reserve, the DoD and the NSA use, because we're the ones who wrote it for them. Your government isn't the only one using it either. Anything, eventually, can be hacked of course, but right now it is the best system on the market, and the minute we learn of someone successfully breaching of any single part of it, we go back and rework the whole thing. It would take a pretty big team working in concert to overcome every safeguard and they'd have to be successful all at once, or have to start over from scratch each time they failed."

Okay, that sounded pretty secure. But … "You're still relying on real time communication transmissions and need uninterrupted power. But we're in a region that has power outages just from the weather, not to mention a targeted attack."

Chuck grinned, seemingly pleased at John's questions and concerns. "We've got our own dedicated power lines and cell towers, with a fifty percent overage capacity at any given time to handle growth. When we go down to a hundred and twenty-five percent of capacity, we start installing a new line or tower to pick up the additional requirements."

Something dinged and Chuck punched out an ID picture. "We've also got banks of emergency generators that take over the load if there is a disruption for more than three point seven seconds. And we generate forty percent of our own electricity on site instead of having to have it supplied. It would take the entire western grid going down to interrupt normal operations. Even then we'd be able to run critical systems for nearly sixty days."

The badge with a thumb-sized chip embedded in its back spit out next.

"Basically, nothing short of a direct nuclear strike would take us out completely, and even an EMP going off will only take us off line for a few hours," he concluded as he started finishing the badge. "As you might imagine, we've got a direct tie to Homeland Security, and are one of the Continuity of Government sites. At least while President Carter is in office."

He let John contemplate the implications of all of that for a few moments when something else chimed behind him. At the same time he headed back to the other station, the door into his lair opened and Amelia Banks, Director of HR, came in, as did a couple other people wearing their own badges. John thought he half recognized the man.

Chuck got a look at the new arrivals and started to straighten up into something like military posture before he scowled briefly and made an obvious effort to relax instead. "Sir?" he still addressed the military-looking guy, while also nodding to the other woman, who moved into Chuck's area, inserted her badge into a slot, and started to log into one of the sets of computers. Amelia came to stand next to John.

"Ladies first," the man offered, though his expression was not one of _innate_ graciousness.

John decided he was an ex-marine.

Amelia flashed a grin that had the marine scowling, the scowl deepening into an outright glower when she leaned over Chuck's front control panel and planted a chaste, but obviously personal, kiss to Chuck's lips. "Are you ready to go for lunch?"

To his credit, Chuck only gave a passing glance back to the marine before he initiated his own kiss, then turned to John and presented the finished badge in his hand with a flourish. "I am, if Sumner doesn't have someone else he needs me for. Lindsey, you ready to take over?"

The woman at the desk hiccupped when she shot a glance at the marine, but nodded.

Sumner, right. Elizabeth Weir's head of security and her chief bodyguard. John had met him on a few occasions when he'd escorted Elizabeth to several functions around DC, but each time they'd never interacted beyond polite introductions before John had been studiedly ignored; Sumner was unobtrusive as any member of the Secret Service when protecting a President out during a social event. John supposed their interactions in the future would become a little more direct, but he'd had a pretty good track record with Marines over the length of his military career, at least the Force Recon guys he'd played taxi-driver for, or the guys he'd MEDEVACed out of combat.

"I'm not here for you, Cambell," Sumner stated. "Or you, Novak. Doctor Weir has been detained in her meeting with the British Prime Minister's people, so she asked me to step in to get … Mister Sheppard, and turn him over to Doctor McKay until she's available."

He could relate to most marines, but maybe not this one since Sumner was looking at John with something close to disapproval.

"I'll be sure to thank Elizabeth for offering your obviously valuable time," John couldn't help in responding. He managed to dial back most of the sarcasm, but his lips ended up quirking on their own into the smirk that had seen him through many a similar situation, even if it had also gotten him into trouble with a CO or two. Predictably, Sumner's lips thinned even more and he turned abruptly to head toward the door, though he did hold it open for the others. Amelia and Chuck both sent John expressions of commiseration, and exited first, with John, then Sumner, following them.

"So, I'm guessing there aren't any regs against employee dating?" John asked as Sumner took him over to one of the ubiquitous golf carts that seemed to be standard in any of the parking lots John had passed when he'd arrived for orientation. Although they had waited until they'd gotten into their own golf cart, the kiss that Chuck and Amelia indulged in before pulling away was a lot more intimate than the ones the two had exchanged in Chuck's office.

"No, there are not," Sumner bit out, obviously not pleased. "It is discouraged between people working in the same department, but Elizabeth is of the belief that it's going to happen anyway, so it shouldn't be forbidden and force people to hide their feelings and attachments. We do not tolerate sexual harassment or coercion in any form, of course."

Well Sumner certainly had told him. "Of course," John repeated. "Fortunately," he felt obligated to point out, "I'm not expected to have any employees working under me directly, at least not at first, just different teams of people on loan from a variety of departments while we figure out what I'm going to pursue here. So it looks like I'll only have to wait a few months for them to rotate out if I become interested in someone."

"I thought you were still dating Elizabeth," Sumner accused, his foot involuntarily pressing harder on the accelerator until he caught himself.

Not that Sumner had seemed happy about that when it had been happening – and not that John and Elizabeth _had_ been dating in the romantic sense of the word back then. John remembered thinking during the time that Sumner might have been jealous. Even if that had been true, obviously Sumner had too much honor to make an exception for himself to his own rules, even if they weren't company ones. That was sad, stupid – and something to be admired.

John figured he'd cut Sumner some slack for that, and actually answer the question honestly.

"Elizabeth and I never were dating. She tapped me as an escort during the charity and funding season while she wooed a few Senators to give Pegasus the opportunity to bid on a few specialized government projects. Actually, I prefer dating men." He figured that would keep Sumner from feeling the need to make any small talk either, and also figured it was best to get that information out in the open right away, before it could end up becoming a security issue.

Instead of stopping conversation, that stopped their drive.

"This is a place of extreme tolerance," Sumner growled. "You're not the first gay who's been hired, so don't think you need to wave a flag or something. No matter who you choose to partner with, you're entitled to a hassle free environment. In return, however, this is a home to thirteen hundred people, not just a place of employment. Excessive public displays by _any_ couple are going to be frowned upon when children are present, and being asked to take it private is not considered harassment. You would do well to remember too, that nearly a third of the thirteen hundred people living here are ex-military."

"Like me."

That earned him the deepest frown John thought he'd ever seen.

"We will intervene should someone become physical or truly threatening," Sumner ground out, "but otherwise, we expect everyone to be adults, and to take care of personal issues without having to involve security." Now finished, Sumner started the cart back up again and turned his face forward, his body language clearly stating he wasn't interested in any further responses John might have to his pronouncement. Considering John had dropped the gay bomb with the intention to forestall small talk, he couldn't complain that he'd been successful.

The trip was short, fortunately, and John needed to pay attention to the route anyway, if he'd have any chance of getting around on his own at the end of the day. They arrived at one of the low-rise buildings maybe a couple of miles away from the security center. John had no idea if this would be the particular building housing his office, but the research labs were all clustered in this area, about five miles from the apartment John had picked out with the intent to jog in and home any day he could.

"You will need to register your own badge when you enter into any R&D building, even if you're in the company of someone else who uses their badge first," Sumner finally spoke again as they reached the lobby. "Otherwise your badge will be rejected when you try to access a lab and security will be notified."

John nodded and flashed it in the vicinity of the reader right after Sumner waved his.

"Doctor McKay is conducting project reviews today," Sumner offered after taking John through a second door and into an area that was offices set around what looked like a resource library. "We'll need to find someone who can point us to the specific lab McKay's in right now."

"Or you can just listen for the shouting and tears," a woman responded, coming out of a cubicle with a handful of schematics. "He's checking the progress on Kim Dumais and Kavanagh's most recent environmental clean up project."

"Mrs. Miller." Sumner nodded in further acknowledgment. "I'm surprised we can't hear Kavanagh and McKay from here."

Although Sumner's expression was a stony as ever, John got the idea he'd actually cracked something of a joke.

"Colonel," the woman returned Sumner's greeting. "Can I be of assistance?" she asked with a cheerful grin and an interested look John's direction.

"This is John Sheppard."

"Oh, our new special projects guy. Welcome." The woman twisted to drop the blueprints onto a surface in the cubicle, then turned back and held out her hand. "Jeannie Miller. Structural engineer."

"And McKay's sister," Sumner pointed out. "If you're serious about having a moment, I'd appreciate it if you would take over escorting Mr. Sheppard," he added. "Doctor Weir has been delayed and is passing Sheppard onto your brother."

"Sure, no problem, Colonel." She then waved off Sumner's gesture toward the cubicle and he nodded, then quickly started for the exit without even saying good-bye or good luck.

John had to grin as he watched Sumner escape. Yeah, there was were going to be problems there, but nothing he hadn't learned how to deal with, like with his own father.

"We should stop and make some microwave popcorn," Jeannie said conspiratorially, reclaiming John's attention and started them off into the depths of the building.

"I've been told Doctor McKay's rants are worth the price of admission," John offered. From what he was observing, there were more offices than there were people in them, though some of the empty ones did seem to have personal touches showing they had occupants at some point.

She nodded and took them down a small flight of six stairs. "No one's immune, not even me, but my brother loathes Ben Kavanagh and takes delight in puncturing Kavanagh's his theories. Of course, from what I understand, Kav and Kim are actually onto something this time."

"Environmental clean up?" John asked, showing he'd been paying attention.

"Reclaiming toxic environments like after oil spills or long-term PCB contamination and lead or mercury seepage. Or that's the hope. Most folks refer to this building as the Sewer because it's also where we've got people working on things anywhere from cheap desalination options to more efficient toilets. My team is working on underwater structures more compatible to coral reef growths than concrete 'castles' "

They passed through one more security check point, this one just needing the badge swipe again, until they reached an airlock, which required a palm to open the first door.

"Yes, it's a protected lab, but we don't need hazmat or even clean room clothes with what they're working on now," she assured John as they moved into the negative pressure corridor. "This series is tests deconstructing crude – "

"Fuck, Kavanagh! You're pushing the red line and your timer is at zero."

The woman now running to the table filled with sample dishes, beakers and a Pyrex cylinder sitting under a fume hood, was the one who'd spoken. The guy John recognized as Rodney McKay from various news articles and publications was also pushing back in his chair, sending it tumbling as he also moved toward the experiment, while the other guy – Kavanagh, John assumed, given there didn't appear to be anyone else in the room – was just standing frozen in the opposite side of the room, an open binder in his hands.

"Mer," Jeannie called out from behind John, not a word that made sense, but her tone of warning and concern did. That or McKay recognizing his sister's voice despite its note of panic had McKay pausing, and that was what saved him from the same fate as the woman.

Even as the woman reached to adjust one of the controls, the cylinder started billowing steam as the liquid within it reached its flash point. No flame, but the distinct sound of glass cracking under extreme pressure sounded just before the Pyrex completely gave way in a spray of shards, liquid, and steam. The woman caught a face full and collapsed with a shrill scream, one echoed by Jeannie and a shout from McKay as his torso was caught in the wide reaching spray. That didn't stop McKay from continuing forward toward the downed woman and grabbing at her hands before she made things worse in her panic.

"We need an ERT down in Lab 4 of Building Epsilon," John heard Jeannie yelling into a phone at the same time he moved to help McKay get the woman out of the bubbling spill.

"There's been an explosion of – " At Jeannie's pause, John looked up to see her scowling at the other guy who still hadn't moved, although he was clutching the binder to his chest now.

"Kavanagh! Jesus fuck, Ben, what were you boiling?" Jeannie screamed.

"He wasn't supposed to be fucking boiling anything," McKay complained in a bitter growl. He nodded to John as John bent down to scoop up the woman while McKay kept hold of her hands. She was still trying to free them and claw at her damaged face. "It's salt water, the oil and his test solvent."

"Nothing caustic," Kavanagh at least seemed to find his tongue. "The whole point was not to introduce anything caustic or artificial and just exchange the problem. Sodium laureth sulfate, dimethylamino-ethylmethacrylate and limonene were added to the crude oil and saline water mix."

"Limonene?" McKay repeated hollowly, while John whispered into the woman's ear, trying to get her to calm down as they lowered her to one of the empty lab tables. "Oh, you are so fucking fired. What was the limonene's concentration?"

John kept half of his attention on the rest of the room, while he started picking out the biggest pieces of glasses from the woman's – wait, Jeannie had said it was Kim Dumais' project along with Kavanagh's. "Kim, you're going to be okay," he reassured her softly as he brushed the glass from her clothes and hair; if an Emergency Response Team was on its way, he wasn't going to take the chance of one of the pieces embedded in her skin being too deep to just be removed until they could clean the liquid off of her too.

He was pretty sure the worst of the damage was just from the glass; the oil was hot against his own fingers but not scalding, and most of the steam had been vented into the overhead hood, though her face was flushed. The mix of chemicals, of course, would be irritating her eyes, but it looked like they were only tearing, not bleeding, and undoubtedly the lab was fitted with an eye wash station and bottled saline solution.

"Twelve percent," Kavanagh was saying when John turned to command him to bring them some saline.

"Oh, fuck," McKay responded and froze for a moment, looking down at his hands and calling John's attention away from Kavanagh due to the new thread of panic now in McKay's tone.

John didn't recognize limonene; his chem dealings were pretty much relegated to rocket and aviation fuels and that wasn't an ingredient in any fuel in his experience.

"Mer?" Jeannie said that word again, and from McKay turning her direction and the looks on both of their faces, John got the impression that was what she called her brother.

"What is it?" John directed to McKay, then again looked up to call for the saline.

"Possibly anaphylaxis," Jeannie now shouted into the phone before she let it drop.

That John did understand, though he'd been lucky in not having any allergies himself; five years of combat medivac work had his parajumpers treating anaphylaxis to emergency meds or toxic exposure more than once. "Jeannie, we need saline for Kim's eyes," he ordered, it being obvious that for a structural engineer, Jeannie still knew her way around a chem lab.

"Mer, you've got to get to a shower station," was how Jeannie responded, but she was also heading toward the other side of the room. "God, why did you ever change your mind and agree to come work here?" she then snapped as an aside to Kavanagh as she pushed past him and wrested the cupboard over his head open.

Christ, the saline had been within Kavanagh's reach!

"Mer, start stripping," Jeannie ordered as she joined John and McKay. "I've got this until Dr. Cole gets here. John," Jeannie then pleaded, "please, go help my brother. He's allergic to citrus oil and he's got it all over his clothes.

"Where's the emergency shower?" John asked, brushing his hand across Kim's cheek in apology for leaving.

"The door at three o'clock," Jeannie answered, taking John's place and holding Kim's chin in place and starting to trickle the saline over Kim's tightly closed eyes.

John nodded and nudged at McKay, having to actually pry McKay's hands off of Kim's wrists, now seeing that the bubbling wasn't just the solution, but also McKay's skin. McKay wasn't moving, though, wasn't really responding.

"Hey, buddy, let's get you naked," John quipped and, indeed, that got a reaction from McKay.

"Who the fuck are you?" McKay growled and gave John a once over.

"The guy who's trying to save your skin, if not your life," John retorted and shoved, this time, instead of nudged.

With one last glance at his sister and Kim, McKay let himself be moved.

## MORE TOWERS GO BOOM  
 _November 15, 2004_

 _LAS VEGAS (Nevada) Early tomorrow morning will see the implosion of the Palms and Saint Andrews Towers, the last pieces of the Desert Inn and nearly the last of the Rat Pack's Vegas. The phoenix rising from these ashes is supposed to be an eventual expansion to the not yet opened five-star resort planned by Steve Wynn, the aptly named Wynn Las Vegas. Old hotels being leveled to make way for new ones is hardly news in a town that has always waxed and waned on the roll of the dice, but with the loss of these final remnants of the Desert Inn, now only the Stardust, the Tropicana and the Flamingo are left from Bugsy, Frankie and Dino's Vegas days._

 _In another gain for women's rights, as led by President Samantha Carter, Laura Cadman runs the crew that is engineering the destruction of the Desert Inn towers. Ms. Cadman, having received her explosives training as a Marine, saw deployments in Iraq, Pakistan and Uzbekistan before relocating to Las Vegas after her service to her country ended abruptly …_

Evan Lorne felt the tug on his elbow and let his fellow Captain, Anne Teldy, drag him away from the spectacle and the crowd. It was probably a little sick that they'd gotten up at oh dark thirty to leave Nellis and go down to the Strip just to witness the implosion of a couple of old hotel towers; it wasn't as if the both of them hadn't seen more than their share of combat and exploding buildings before earning this current duty back stateside. Maybe that was exactly why the two of them had chosen to come; why, no doubt, there were plenty of other Airmen and Marines from Nellis, Creech and El Toro sprinkled in amidst the civilians and tourists. This type of explosion didn't normally produce any loss of life, was being done with a _positive_ eye to the future, and yet was a superb example of skill and precision. Not to mention a big, big boom that would be really cool.

"So, we have time to grab a really early breakfast before we return to base," Evan breathed in Anne's ear to be overheard as they weaved their way through the crowd. "How about we head over to Blueberry Hill?" He'd parked them a couple of miles away from the Strip and the convention center, knowing the traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, would be a bitch for the next hour or so.

Anne grinned. "Oh, yeah, I could really go for some chocolate pancakes."

## CAN LIGHTNING STRIKE TWICE?  
 _Business Desk; Staff Writers  
June 18, 2005_

 _Elizabeth Weir's Pegasus Group had first been thought of as a rich woman's indulgence and eccentricity, a social liberal's post-graduate lab and playground without anyone in the business world giving it any chance of succeeding. Not a single reporter or expert expected the corporate world of cutthroats and competition to embrace, to even tolerate doing business with someone whose business model was a socialist ideal of putting people and products before profits. Certainly not after the pull out of Devlin Industries and the huge failure of their partnership's investment into medical use nanotechnology, which lost both companies a billion dollars or more during the first year of their joint undertaking. The appellation of_ Weir's Folly _was bandied about once more, with odds topping out at three to two that she'd burn through all of her inherited oil billions within ten years._

 _All that changed, however, with the unveiling of the Miller-McKay fuel cell six months ago and the successful trials of the Sheppard-Zelenka Puddlejumper last month. Suddenly all the analysts were predicting that Pegasus' earnings should double within twelve months, and double again within twenty-four more, should the fuel cell truly be mass producible and then adaptable for current aeronautic designs as well as for the planned plane/car hybrid._

 _Whispers of_ Weir's Folly _are resurfacing again, however, in the face of yesterday's announcement. Corporate towns masquerading as self-sustaining bio domes are one thing, but a theme park portraying itself as a technology showcase is quite something else. Sure, Walt Disney had touted his_ Tomorrowland _as something of the same, and various corporate sponsors contributed to the_ Homes and Technologies of Tomorrow _features, but no one was ever fooled into thinking that Monsanto or TWA were actually showing off viable cutting-edge technologies pre-patenting, or that the 'entertainment' value of their corporate exhibits weren't the first priority._

 _Weir's people, however, are not only claiming they're going to be offering open source technology once the showcase park opens, but that the best way to get the public comfortably involved and invested in any innovation is to make the public a part of the process. The Pegasus Holding Group wants John and Jane Q. Citizen to conduct consumer trials and quality control under the guise of taking a vacation in what will be the country's newest amusement park and resort:_ Atlantis _._

 _Folly or fortune, rumor has it that President Samantha Carter has already enjoyed a sneak preview tour and vowed to return …_

"So tell us, Doctor Jackson, how does a scholar and archeologist become one of Hollywood's hottest writer/directors?"

Daniel Jackson smiled for his host and the camera despite the burn of pain and anger that flashed through him. He'd known that Emmett Bregman had a reputation as a thorough investigator and a more than competent news reporter, but as Daniel had become something of a fixture in Hollywood over the last six years (if still considered a new wunderkind in the mold of Frances Ford Coppola, George Lucas, or Steven Spielberg), he no longer expected anyone to bother digging up what he'd done previous to penning _God Kings on Earth_ and its sequel, _Paths of the Ancestors_.

"Well, Emmett, I am of the school that believes writers work best when they can draw from real life experiences." Daniel took off his glasses to clean them on the hem of his shirt. Better to let the viewers and Bregman see him as nervous about being in front of a camera instead of behind one, and not have a clue to the real source of his nerves.

"Many storytellers have long looked to myths and fables as inspiration, as Joseph Campbell has so ably shown us in his work _The Hero with a Thousand Faces_ and _The Masks of God_ ," Daniel continued. "As an avid student of the world's many cultures, religions and histories, I don't need to cultivate so much of an imagination as simply reinterpret themes and ideas that resonate, no matter what setting they're presented in – or which culture is viewing them." Daniel let his smile broaden self-deprecatingly. "Some of my Hollywood peers claim my background offers me an unfair advantage," he finished with a little wave before ducking his head, as he knew his skin was beginning to flush.

Bregman smiled back, although Daniel didn't find the smile very reassuring. "Well, unfair or not – _imaginative_ or not – it is safe to say that you have certainly become one of the most _successful_ storytellers of the modern age."

It wasn't a baring of teeth or even particularly shark-like. Actually it was almost sympathetic, but Daniel doubted the sympathy was for the loss of privacy or the relentless fans that often plagued him, as it might have been coming from someone else. No, this sympathy was for a man who had traded his lifelong dream for validation elsewhere. Who had, frankly, given up if not sold out. And who was going to be called on it.

Daniel had chosen to allow this interview, however, and had known going into it that Bregman was fair but tough, that he was almost as relentless as those fans that didn't quite get that Daniel was _making things up_.

"Like the best people in your business, your characters, indeed your entire universe, has become part of the very cultures you are so good at entertaining," Bregman unrolled his soft set-up. "Your first screenplay has spawned a movie _franchise_ , two television series and countless other derivative works, including video and role-playing games where the viewer can actually become part of the universe they've grown to love."

Daniel could absolutely hear the _but_ which was coming amidst this listing of his accolades.

"So do you find it fulfilling? Can millions of adoring fans and millions of dollars make up for the fact that your peers in your previous career more or less laughed you out of what was obviously your first and true love? Aren't you just living and striking back at them vicariously though your lead character, Raymond Anders?"

Even anticipating the potential of such a question, the actual asking of it and the bare recitation of his disgrace came as a blow. Daniel knew his smile faltered, and no doubt the earlier redness of embarrassment had paled considerably. He'd seen many fellow writers or directors ambushed in similar circumstances, seen them outed as homosexuals or as a philanderers or drug users. While he'd always had a measure of sympathy for them, he'd also felt that those who sinned against what the public deemed acceptable should have known they could and would be caught out. He hadn't seen himself as one of them, however, had truly never expected anyone to care who _Doctor_ Daniel Jackson had been when there were so many rumors and salacious opportunities to speculate about _celebrity_ Daniel Jackson.

"Money and popularity certainly don't hurt," Daniel finally managed to get out with a bit of a laugh that was really just ashes in his throat. "I don't think any archeologist beyond Raymond Anders has done more to promote the field or historical significance – other than Indiana Jones, of course," he managed more glibly. "And now I've got the money to finance my own dig if I wanted, instead of having to rely on grants or other outside funding."

"Is that what is next for you then?" Bregman asked altogether too gently. "It certainly is a shame that so many of the current wars and upheavals are occurring in the lands of our earliest histories. _I_ cry to think of how many wonders, how many precious pieces of our past are being destroyed or looted in places like Iraq and Iran."

Oh, Lord, was Bregman not looking to torpedo him, but instead really hoping to spark some sort of political diatribe against the wars the United States was currently waging? Daniel supposed Bregman could truly feel as awful about what was being lost in the Middle East as Daniel did; from what he remembered, the reporter did have some time racked up as a war correspondent. From Daniel's past observations, few who'd spent time in the Middle East could remain unmoved by the plights of the civilians who were all too often callously overlooked by those in power.

Yet sympathetic or not, Daniel had no intention of discussing politics, the military, or his former career other than in the vaguest manner. Fortunately, Bregman had given him the perfect opportunity to deflect such further questioning.

"Actually no, Emmett. My newest project is going to be for Elizabeth Weir and her Pegasus Group. She's asked me to design several storylines for the Atlantis resort and to film both the introduction to the world she's creating as well as footage for some sort of adventure ride throughout the complex. Two more of my screenplays are set to be staged by Franco Dragone as his first projects after leaving _Cirque Du Soleil_ as well."

## CRIME MAKES STRANGE BEDFELLOWS  
 _Crime Desk; Yolanda Reese  
July 31, 2006_

 _What do a pathologist and a plant that only blooms every fifteen to twenty-five years have in common? The conviction of Al Martel, the noted producer of IWN's_ Inside Access _and several high profile celebrity telethons, for kidnapping, assault and second-degree murder._

 _While it will never be under consideration for a Crime of the Century, the downfall of Martel can still be attributed to some tricky and skillful forensics detection, as well as the toxic properties of a long thought extinct variant of the_ Agavaceae _, or as it is more commonly known in the United States, the Century Plant. For hundreds of years this hearty desert native has been cultivated for its flower stems, seeds, sap and leaves, and is used in the production of flour, a sugar substitute, pens, nails, needles, mescal, tequila, clothing and hemp by ancient and native peoples. Its medicinal properties are currently under study, which is how Martel was brought to justice._

 _When Doctor Colleen Biro, a pathologist working for the Iowa Lutheran Hospital in Des Moines conducted the autopsy for a John Doe assault victim, she discovered an unidentified toxin present that led her to initially conclude that the young man had died from a severe allergic reaction. It took nearly two weeks to pin down the classification of the toxin to the sap of the_ Agave americana var. mare _, or the Sea Agave. A plant which, until the renowned botany team of Nobel Prize winners, Katherine Brown and David Parrish, restored it to life using DNA from seed pods recovered from beneath Hadrian's Wall by an archaeological dig, had been thought extinct for almost two thousand years._

 _According to court transcripts, Martel had been present with one of his reporters for a pre-interview with the husband and wife team of Parrish and Brown, and during the tour of their lab, the IWN producer managed to cut himself on one of the razor sharp leaves of the baby Sea Agave, exposing himself to the caustic properties of the plant's sap. The sap he then, in turn, transmitted to the John Doe, finally identified as runaway, Henry Boyd, who Martel had picked up off the street of Des Moines for a night of pleasure that turned deadly._

 _Despite its use and study for such medicines as steroids, analgesics and contraceptives, a small percentage of the population has proven allergic to the sap of the Agave plant, and in the case of severe allergic reactions, only the smallest amount transmitted during a hug or in an exchange of money can …_

Miko Kusanagi hit **send** to upload the newest articles to _NobelStalker_ , then twisted in her chair until her back cracked, before taking a large sip of her soda. Maintaining her web archive on all the living Nobel Prize recipients had turned into a full-time job, especially now with the first public release of academic papers, research data and open source code from several of the scientific luminaries Doctor Weir had gathered at Pegasus. No doubt every newspaper in the country would be reporting on the upcoming press conference, and while ninety-nine percent of the data Miko collected on her idols were merely links that all amounted to the same story (or at least the same _type_ of story), _someone_ needed to glean through the articles and references to find the meat of the achievement, as well as the anecdotal information such as the article she'd just collected on Brown and Parrish and their recent involvement in a murder trial.

Ignoring the strong words between her parents coming from downstairs, Miko planned to also ignore the inevitable summons from her mother for dinner; she had fruit and a can of nuts to go along with her Coke which would be much more digestible than the silent pity and disappointment served along with the food at the family dinner table. Still, she turned up the volume of her translation software so that her honorable father would have no cause to his anger other than the normal ones, and lost herself in listening to all of the wondrous things she'd once longed to take part in.

Perhaps her heart still cried for the science that she had lost along with her sight, but overall she chose to feel pride in her most recent accomplishments, even if her father didn't understand them: the success and international recognition of her website and the elegant programs she'd created to be sort through all of the news sources she could access on the world wide web. Also the translation software she still hoped that someone, maybe even the Pegasus Group itself, would wish to produce and distribute, thus giving her freedom once more.

And a chance to meet some of the people she could now only dream about.

#####   
Pegasus Holding Group  
3640 Pegasus Drive  
Newcomb, New Mexico 80123

December 14, 2006

Dear Applicant,

Thank you for your interest in employment with Pegasus. By now you should have received a call directly from one of our employees to discuss your resume. If you haven't, please call 1-800-555-1234 to review whether we require more information, and to be connected to the proper department who will review whether or not we have an opening in your specialty.

If you feel you require additional information about the company before your interview, you can find our prospectus, news library and a listing of employees who will be happy to answer your questions at our website: www.peggroup.com. If you do not have easy access to the web, please call the above number and request that basic orientation packet number one be sent to your address.

Thank you so much for your interest in Pegasus.

Warmest Regards,

Elizabeth Weir, PhD.

cc: Amelia Banks, Director of Human Resources


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2.**

 **January 19, 2007**  
 **Parlor Suite at Wynn Las Vegas**  
 **Las Vegas, Nevada**

"Rodney, you're going to be late."

The hand brushing across his bared shoulder was gentle and soothing, and endangering Doctor (PhD, PhD) Rodney McKay's pissy mood. No doubt purposely, because John was like that and maybe even because John didn't know that Rodney was pissed off. Well, no doubt John knew that Rodney was unhappy about something, since that was pretty much his default mode and half of what this vacation for them was all about. (The other half being a break for John while he recovered from that little mishap during his latest test flight.)

It wasn't so much that Rodney wanted to stuff one of his pillows back over his head and go back to sleep, for one thing John's hand was damp and that meant shower which in turn meant naked, and naked was a very, very good look on John in Rodney's book. (No doubt that opinion would be a major consensus on many peoples' part, but they didn't get to look any more, so hah! on them.) Only, naked was a waste here other than being able to look, because of that 'late' accusation. Rodney _wanted_ to be late, wanted not to have any schedule other than his own to worry about, and he still had to figure out some suitable revenge against Elizabeth for saddling him with _four_ interviews on behalf of Pegasus, when _he was supposed to be on vacation_..

Soft lips replacing damp fingers against his shoulder and then his neck put a pause to John's amused drawl – and to Rodney's quicksilver thoughts. When it felt as if John was going to resume his chivvying, Rodney twisted his body around, making sure he kept one hand free of the tangled sheets so he could reach up and pull John down into a more thorough kiss.

"Hey, come on, Rodney," John halfheartedly began to protest when they broke for breath, but allowed himself to be tugged back onto the bed. He was more straddling Rodney than lying over him, but as long as Rodney had long, lean muscle to thrust against, he was okay with that –

"Rodney," John started a little more seriously, only to turn his chide into a whine when Rodney nipped at the skin under the water trailing from John's hair line down the length of his neck. Before starting on a mark against John's collar bone.

Rodney didn't often mark John. John's past in American military service still reared its head between them occasionally and sometimes about the most innocuous things, though at this point in their relationship, Rodney was convinced that John didn't think it was _anyone's_ business who he was fucking, and not that his aversion to being marked was a left over habit from hiding such things from the Air Force. He had a point to it this time, however, and maybe John was clued in too, as he wasn't doing anything to pull away from Rodney's lips or teeth until Rodney was satisfied the redness would last for more than a day.

"So you watched the interview?" John asked dryly as he straightened his elbows to lift up so they could look at each other without straining their eyes.

Rodney took a deep breath to start in on what exactly he'd seen, but John wasn't looking angry or confused about Rodney's sudden bout of possessiveness, and it wasn't like John hadn't been doing Rodney a favor anyway in taking last night's interview, so to complain about the outcome would be pretty petty. Especially when Rodney knew it wasn't John's fault reporters and paparazzi expected a hot-looking, former US Military war hero to be matched with young, attractive women instead of a thinning-haired, _male_ physicist. Even if that physicist has been on the Nobel short list the last four years running.

"You know she practices those artful sighs in front of a mirror in order to show maximum cleavage, right?" was what Rodney eventually said. "And if she'd batted her eyes any more, her agent would have had to take her to the emergency room to see to the obvious brain hemorrhage."

"Erin Burnett is one of CNBC's top financial analysts, Rodney. You would have gotten the sighs, the eyes, and the gratuitous touching too, if you hadn't blown her off,"

"I didn't dump that on you on purpose," Rodney protested with a brief push against John's chest that had him moving off and back so Rodney could at least sit up. "The idiots from _Popular Science_ had me double booked, _and_ they had me meet them at the Excalibur. The Excalibur! Even Hollywood would claim that place was tacky. They took me to lunch at _Lance-A-Lotta Pasta_ , for Newton's sake. It was bad enough that their only brush with science comes from reading the nutritional guidelines off the side of their cereal boxes in the morning, and that any claim they might have to business acumen is their ability to cash a paycheck. But they gushed over the tar-tasting Krispy Kreme donuts and had to spend ten minutes watching them being made, like that process is the height of scientific achievement, when I was trying to explain how the McKay-Miller fuel cell will revolutionize the – "

"Hey, isn't it called the _Miller_ -McKay – "

Rodney twisted and pushed John so he was the one lying on the bed, with Rodney crawling, then lying on top of him full body: chest to chest, thigh to thigh, with their ankles hooked around one another and their arms raised, fingers intertwined above John's hair. Chances were that John would need to wet it down again to have any chance of managing the cowlicks and spikes he'd let dry naturally by coming to Rodney instead of finishing his morning ablutions.

"So if you were with _Popular Science_ all through the morning and past lunch …" John began, entirely too coherent despite what Rodney was doing to his neck once more.

"I had to reschedule the _Forbes_ interview for afterward and, yes, I missed the entire opening day of the Amaz!ng Meeting," Rodney grumped, taking a moment to just lie against John's body and relax into John's hands sweeping slowly up and down his back. .

Sure he might have decided to attend the James Randi Foundation's symposium mainly to ridicule one or two of the speakers who were definitely a chip or two short of a circuit board, like that Hollywood guy, Daniel Jackson, who Elizabeth was all giddy about. Yet any gathering whose main point was to publicly debunk specious claims of paranormal abilities like those so-called psychics, Sylvia Brown or Uri Gellar, meant that, overall, they were Rodney's kind of people. That was the reason (beyond John's plans to play golf and not get caught counting cards when he wasn't with Rodney at the conference) that they'd chosen Vegas for their vacation (Rodney's first in at least five years).

"All the _Forbes_ reporter was interested in was dirt on Elizabeth. Once I finally got rid of him and caught up to you, the CNBC people wouldn't let me join you since they were broadcasting live," he finally admitted the real reason for waking up in a pissy mood.

Their only job here should have been having fun during the days, getting in some decent sleep, eating some fantastic food, and spending the rest of their time indulging in all kinds of decadent debauchery over their six days and five nights in the highest comfort and luxury a city like Las Vegas could offer. Instead Rodney had to spend an evening watching – along with millions of other viewers – as Mélissa Theuriau, European reporter-cum-supermodel, practically climbed into John's lap while she 'interviewed' him.

While Rodney had never blamed John for the tabloid speculations that had surfaced after the France thing, he also thought he deserved some credit for weathering his and John's more recent six month separation quite maturely. John had traveled on that charity fund-raising good will tour hosted by Deborah Santana of the Milagro Foundation and the pictures that had come from that had been all over the entertainment magazines and news shows too. He knew, after all, that John never encouraged the come-ons, so it wasn't like John was an unfaithful or bad boyfriend. But Rodney was so fucking tired of this type of crap, of feeling jealous and, even more distressing, feeling inadequate. He'd never been willing to share – toys or credit – and he definitely felt the same way about his lover.

Elizabeth's pet psychiatrist liked to claim that Rodney's lack of social and verbal filters was environmentally ingrained and beyond his control, flat out refusing to accept that Rodney had consciously chose to be uncompromising in his work and his personal interactions as a last ditch attempt to salvage his sanity when he'd realized he'd forever be surrounded by idiots, given he was the smartest man in the world. Doctor Ferguson seemed to expect that Rodney would eventually overcome his 'handicap', leaving Rodney little doubt that yesterday and today's interviews had been his ideas as much as Elizabeth's; that 'call me Bryce' had seen these interviews as some kind of systematic desensitization therapy.

As if Rodney's reaction to idiots and phonies was some kind of innate phobia that could be overcome with continual exposure. As if Rodney _cared_ that he wanted John all to himself or that he got people's names wrong or never bothered to learn them in the first place. That he might make his own employees cry simply by actually expecting them to do the job they were hired for.

"Really, I don't think locking you out was personal, Rodney," John said quietly, calmly, and not at all as condescending as he sometimes became when he got tired of Rodney's insecurities. "Ms. Burnett apparently has a stalker that lives here in Vegas, so they closed the set to everyone despite it being held in MGM's Television City."

"Really?" Rodney lifted his head up from John's shoulder.

"Cross my heart," to which John added the three finger scout salute although Rodney knew John had never been a boy scout. "The audience shots and the reactions were all added from some other feed."

"No wonder she kept touching you. There wasn't anyone there to call her on it."

"I called her on it, Rodney, just like I'm going to call you on it now." John looked a little indignant, but still reluctant as he made a move to shift Rodney off of him. "We both need to get a move on. One last interview, the employee one, right? You'll know inside of thirty seconds if you want to hire the guy, though you'd better tough it out for at least ten minutes if you don't want it getting back to Elizabeth."

When Rodney still made no move to get up from the wonderfully sybaritic bed (at least that part of their vacation was going right; the Wynn was everything it was advertised to be and then some – if you had the money to pay for it), John took matters into his own hands and slid out, deftly ignoring Rodney's hands and the heated look Rodney couldn't help displaying just from watching John move.

Naked, flushed, and resolved was indeed a damn fine look for John, one that Rodney had yet to grow tired of and one that John had yet to grow tired of indulging Rodney in. Or grow self-conscious about, despite John no longer being quite the hard body he'd been when they'd first met.

Oh, John was still tall and lean and moved with an economy of motion that bespoke his military background. But the clichéd six pack and biceps of a man whose free time between missions or sorties had often been spent in mindless physical pursuits, had given away to someone no longer so limited in his choices of work or play options, not to mention just the vagaries of age. Rodney suspected at this point he'd find a few gray hairs beyond John's beard, but he also had no doubt that John would still fit into his Air Force dress blues despite the barest hint of a now rounding belly.

It wasn't as if Rodney wasn't also showing his age. Including that of his inner thirteen year old, he supposed, acknowledging the waste of his petulance and giving in, rolling out of bed himself. He still had to step up behind him when John bent over to pull up his underwear. John had chosen briefs and while Rodney lamented the easier access boxers would have provided, he still appreciated the way the taut material packaged and showed off things so nicely – the way the material pulled even tighter across John's cock and ass under the brush of Rodney's finger. For a moment and, damn surprisingly, John actually relaxed against Rodney, not just indulging Rodney's play but actually letting Rodney be the one to support and hold them both upright as his body gave a little shudder that wasn't just his normal show of arousal.

Rodney stilled his fingers and took a moment to simply embrace John from behind while his mind couldn't avoid parsing through this new causality string that included Las Vegas, briefs versus boxers and this need/acceptance of comfort from John. Rodney wasn't good at reading the emotional undercurrents in relationships (but John was even worse, including any admittance that he _had_ any emotional currents, so it wasn't really Rodney's fault), yet John's unexpected vulnerability here hinted that perhaps it wasn't Rodney's interview that had John so focused. That maybe today's round of golf was something a lot more significant than merely playing a course he hadn't tried before.

Taken in that context, the last pieces fell into place in Rodney's admittedly distracted mind. Las Vegas could include the nearby Creech and Nellis Air Force Bases. In turn, that brought up the memory of an off-hand comment by John about a former pilot buddy he'd hoped to check in with when they'd first been planning this trip; a buddy who'd been grounded by injuries a couple years back and who was now overseeing the Air Force's unmanned Predator drone program instead of having discharged.

"So you're playing golf with Conner today?" Rodney asked even as his body registered the subtle tension in John's muscles that said John had been motionless for too long. Rodney let go without making a big deal of it and took a step back, staying close enough to touch but not crowd.

The look in John's eyes as he twisted his head to give Rodney a kiss was the one that always left Rodney feeling weird and wonderful; the one that meant Rodney's ability to draw correct conclusions from disparate data was _cool_ and not simply exploitable.

"Wrong cowboy, Rodney," John smiled against Rodney's lips. "Think Buck Cannon, not Lucas McCain."

"Huh?"

John's smiled widened. "Cameron Mitchell is my friend's name, not Chuck Connors; his parents had a weird sense of humor." John pressed another kiss between them before pulling away and moving to the room's walk-in closet, his limp only noticeable because Rodney was looking for it.

Rodney let the name thing go; he cared only because it was something that mattered to John's.. Watching John select his clothes was a lot more interesting than worrying about TV cowboys – or golf partners.

"And, yeah, Cam and I are going to see if we can manage at least nine holes. So we might not be done in time to join you for lunch, but I will be there for the afternoon sessions," John called back while he picked through his choices.

Rodney wasn't sure if John's typical fare (cargo pants and a black t-shirt) were more a rebellion against John's past military service or if it went all the way back to growing up in a family of _old_ money. He did know that John had had little to do with his family for years; that John had resisted the life his father had planned out for him by fleeing to Stanford University in California, then joining the Air Force upon earning his first degree instead of taking his place in the family's business empire. John also deliberately turned his back on the trappings of money and privilege most of the time now, but in some things John couldn't escape his breeding and grace. Such as today, with John choosing a pair of black linen pants, a charcoal turtleneck, and a black and aqua diamond patterned cashmere v-neck sweater, no doubt to combat a winter morning in Vegas as well as answer to some paean to the gods of golf.

Part of Rodney's fascination was envy, he knew. He himself now had the money to enjoy the type of lifestyle John had grown up in (like a Parlor Suite at the Wynn), but he was still also very much a product of his own upbringing. He doubted he would ever be able to effortlessly convey the sense of style and understated wealth that let John intermingle with moguls and _maitre-des_ with ease in his job as Pegasus' front man.

Of course, if Rodney had never succumbed to the man's dubious charms in the first place, he'd only be feeling guilty over his jealousy over John's upbringing, instead of knowing that other people's reactions to John also bothered him too regularly, even after two and a half years of knowing Rodney's bed was the only one that John fell into at night. Rodney had, after all, stopped being impressed by someone's looks by the time he was eight, when he'd painfully realized that most people got looks or athletic skills, intelligence or a winning personality, but never more than two in any combination.

John was the exception that proved the rule, Rodney supposed, not that John wasn't sometimes an uncoordinated dork despite his military background. And some people might say John's personality was as shallow as it was charming. Add in his hedgehog hair, a lack of trust in most people, and a certain tendency toward smugness and insolence … no doubt John had driven most of his COs absolutely crazy.

Then there was the fact that John wore smartly tailored clothes very, very well. Even if his color sense was a little…limited.

The funny thing about John and golf was that the sport wasn't something John had learned growing up in the Hamptons despite what everyone now assumed (including Rodney at one point). He'd only taken it up after taking fire while flying humanitarian relief after Kosovo, resulting in a need for rehabilitation which had included work with the _Adaptive Golf Foundation for American Veterans_.

Not only had golf allowed John to regain full combat fitness, but he'd also taken to the sport like a computer geek to Anna Kournikova. He'd become a fanatic (with a four handicap), remained involved with the Veterans Foundation from the therapist side now, and had designed three courses himself, including the 18-hole championship course for the Atlantis project that was going to be available for the Adaptive people free of charge.

The current golf regimen planned for Vegas was again as much for therapy as it was pleasure – and not just for John's friend. Fortunately the strenuous portion of John's physical therapy for his knee was basically over; his rate of recovery was right on target according to the specialist who'd actually handled the surgery. John had been off crutches for a week and wasn't even limping much anymore (just when he'd been standing on it for too long or in the first moments when he rose from bed). Walking was actually easier than staying still, John claimed, and certainly he wasn't showing any discomfort as he finished with his clothes.

"So I'm finally going to meet the infamous Cameron Mitchell," Rodney loaded his tone with enough indifference that John would know his current bout of jealousy had nothing to do with distrusting _John_..

John turned enough to see that Rodney's gaze wasn't really on John's expression, though Rodney still caught the growing smirk from the corner of his eye.

"He's straighter than Radek's slide rule, Rodney. And I think the infamy's going to be on your side if you're going to stand around in your boxers all morning."

Rodney would never be as comfortable with his body on display as John was, but he had gotten used to being appreciated regardless of what he thought of it himself. The unfortunate squawk he made as he bounded out of their bedroom toward the bathroom, therefore, had nothing to do being ogled in return, and everything to do with hearing a sharp rap on the door. John's quiet laughter accompanied Rodney's undignified retreat.

"Relax," he heard John call out before both of them moved too far from the other to make out words. "It's just room service. Cam's not due here for another… twenty minutes."

Plenty of time to shave, shower and jerk off, given how ready Rodney was from waking, watching, and being watched. He figured his own appointment would appreciate it too, since horniness led to crankiness led to people departing in tears, to paraphrase Yoda.

****

  
John signed the receipt and tipped the man a nice sum. While he would have chosen staying at New York, New York – for the easy access to the roller coaster – he did have to admit that the service here at the Wynn was even more impressive than the spacious suite Rodney had insisted on, with its view over the golf course and the mountains ringing the eastern side of Vegas.

Taking a seat at the dining table, John uncovered the morning's fare and smiled in delight. In addition to a carafe of coffee, apple juice, a few pastries and bagels, he found two bowls of _fresh_ blackberries alongside two small pitchers of cream. When they'd been asked to list their favorite foods and leave the specific choices to their dedicated chef upon check-in, John still hadn't expected someone to bother finding the decidedly out of season fruit when other options had also been listed.

Obviously spending more per night than John's _monthly_ rent on his first apartment with Nancy had its perks.

He helped himself to the juice and one of the bowls of berries, leaving the coffee for Rodney. During his years in the military he'd been exposed to the very best – and the very worst – that could be produced from a coffee bean. Now he pretty much relied on it only as a pick-me-up for when he had a morning's worth of paperwork or meetings planned instead of something physical like working out at the test site – or a round of golf. There was also the fact that Rodney was even more a connoisseur than John, as well as remarkably greedy when it came to coffee. Though John doubted Rodney would have enough time to finish the entire carafe before he left for his own meet up, it was just easier to let it go and leave it all for him anyway.

"Hey, is that coffee?" Rodney called out from the bedroom as he undoubtedly caught the scent of the cup John was pouring for him.

Yesterday's carafe had contained the most flavorful of the Columbian offerings and no doubt tomorrow's would be yet another rare and bountiful blend. Today's smelled like Pilipino Barako, which explained the pitcher of honey and cup of brown sugar – not that John was going to fix it properly for Rodney, since Rodney had peculiar taste when it came to sweet things. Of course, the _first_ cup could be _Sanka_ or instant for all that Rodney ever tasted it. John still hadn't decided whether it was the smell and heat, or simply the jolt of caffeine that Rodney was after in his first cup. There had been a few times when he wondered what Rodney would ever do if he got stuck on a desert island or somewhere remote enough that he'd have to ration himself – or if he actually ran out.

Today was no different; Rodney came out to take his first drink before he put on his shirt. The taste did slow him down, however, as did catching sight of the blackberries. He grinned and glided in John's direction for another round of kisses. The bitter nutty taste on Rodney's tongue actually overpowered the tartness of the berries that John had started on. For a moment the taste, even more than the aroma brought memories of his time spent in the Philippines and John found himself pulling away a little quicker than was probably prudent if he wanted to keep those memories to himself.

Except Rodney took the abrupt ending of their kiss as an opportunity to pour himself another cup and fixed it with more honey than brown sugar. Rodney then took the seat on the corner from him, grabbed his own berries and dumped all of his cream plus the remainder of John's into the bowl before sprinkling some of the left over brown sugar on top.

"You have taken all you wanted, haven't you?" Rodney seemed to realize that he'd absconded with John's cream and offered a slightly self-conscious smile.

John nodded. He's actually intended to pour more of the cream onto the rest of his berries, but after almost thirty months of being in a relationship with this man, he was well used to having his food – and, really, pretty much anything else he owned – stolen by Rodney.

"I did tell you that I was meeting Elizabeth's candidate for breakfast, right?" Rodney then asked, taking two of the pastries from the plate between them, but not because he was offering them to John.

"Yeah," John nodded again and then took a drink of apple juice to get rid of the cream cheese taste in his mouth from his own bite from the bakery pieces. He remembered, but hadn't been about to let Rodney out of the room without a first cup of coffee and a few bites of _something_.. Orange or lemon slices as garnishes were all too common on the menus about town, along with waiters or waitresses that didn't get that it wasn't just a matter of not eating it when it lay there on the plate for people with citrus allergies.

While their assigned chef and the servers here in the Tower Suite building had been briefed on _all_ of Rodney's allergies – so they could be relied upon to offer citrus-free delights – John had no such confidence regarding the cafés, buffets, and coffee shops that lined the Strip. If Rodney ended up skipping breakfast to keep his allergies at bay, then got involved in something that distracted him from eating later, Rodney's incipient hypoglycemia could click in before he realized he was in trouble.

John knew he didn't really need to fuss; Rodney wasn't the least bit careless or casual about his health…often to the point of hypochondria. Rodney also wasn't remotely casual about making a scene when a restaurant got it wrong. John didn't think the prospective candidate needed an embarrassing public outburst to go along with her bowl of fruit or _Wheaties_ , however. It was far better to get a potential employee hooked on the concept of Pegasus (or Atlantis) _before_ being exposed to the full Rodney McKay package.

Thinking back to his own first exposure to Rodney, John gestured to the rest of the food on the table. "But I also figured Chef Reynaldo would be heartbroken if he didn't get your notes on the scones and the …" Actually, John wasn't sure what the little pastry cigar-type rolls were. They must have come from Rodney's side of the preferences.

" _Klobasnek_ and _Kolache_ ," Rodney informed him while biting into one then licking away the oozing white filling. "The meat filled ones are the _Klobasnek_ and the fruit or cream cheese ones would be _Kolache_.. Radek turned me on to them, although the little bastard won't prepare them very often – "

John let Rodney's ranting flow over him and tried another himself, deciding he preferred the spicy sausage and dried apricot _Klobasnek_ to the _Kolaches_.. He grabbed the other two cream cheese ones anyway – even though he _hated_ cream cheese. His eating them quickly was a damn sight easier than watching Rodney practically fellate a second one.

"And you were afraid all they would serve downstairs was the real, homemade variety of oatmeal instead of instant," Rodney started to chide.

"Hey, so I don't like gooey – " John caught himself too late to prevent Rodney's snort and what he expected Rodney thought was a leer; it looked more like Rodney had zapped himself shorting out a circuit board again.

"Gooey _textures_ can adversely affect taste and … And you accuse me of being a twelve year old!" John finally gave up trying to explain.

Rodney showed him a grin that was all mashed blackberries against his teeth before swiping his tongue pornographically to clean them. He then leaned over to give John another kiss. "Not all of the time," he breathed across John's lips before he pulled back for another spoonful.

John's pants had been tight from the moment he'd first put them on and were growing tighter every time Rodney looked at him – even knowing that Rodney was doing all of this on purpose. Even in knowing that Rodney had taken the time to get himself off in the shower. This most recent blatant attempt at seduction – when Rodney knew neither of them had the time to deal – was even more childish than Rodney's food antics or the type of behavior he accused John of engaging in, but John understood the rationale behind it and couldn't really call Rodney on his jealousy, even if it might mean a couple of embarrassing smirks from Cam in a few minutes.

For some reason Rodney still hadn't quite gotten it into his head that John was a firm believer in monogamy. John _never_ entered into a relationship with the expectations that it would be a temporary thing. While he'd understood and agreed with Nancy when they'd gotten their divorce, John still would have stuck with her for the rest of his life had she not been the one insisting they separate. Even now he still loved and missed her.

This was not to say that he wasn't _more_ in love with Rodney – and happier with Rodney and with Pegasus – than at any other time in his life that he could remember, including when his mother had still been alive.

When John fell in love, he fell completely and irrevocably; Rodney being no exception among the other three people John still held in his heart. One day he hoped he'd be able to convince Rodney that it was the whole Rodney gestalt, the bad social skills, the verbal flayings and the receding hairline as well as Rodney's quick wit, his stunning eyes and that unconventional smile _and_ body that had drawn John in. That Rodney could do anything and John wouldn't leave him unless he asked John to leave.

Until then, until Rodney finally understood that John wasn't looking around and that he wouldn't leave until he was kicked out or left behind, John could live with Rodney's jealousy – and the ridiculous lengths Rodney sometimes felt he needed to indulge in to keep John's attention.

Of course, sometimes John really was stuck at twelve years old, and he wasn't the only one who needed to be downstairs in a little less than ten minutes.

He took the filled spoon out of Rodney's hand and licked it clean, keeping the one fat berry behind his lips. At Rodney's inevitable cry of foul for the food theft, John leaned forward and offered his own kiss in apology, opening his mouth to offer entry to Rodney's tongue. The tartness of the retained berry exploded between them, with nary a drop being spilled, although John wasn't sure whose tongue actually savored the last of the juice. Or whose breath was stuttering the most when they pulled away from each other.

The sound of John's cell phone going off interrupted anything else. He ignored Rodney's glare and turned it over to check the caller ID: Cam.

"Problems, Buddy?" he popped it open, offering no other greeting.

"Just traffic, man." Cam sounded stressed. "I'll be five or ten minutes late, so why don't we just meet in front of the Ferrari-Maserati dealership."

"We do have an eight o'clock tee-time," John reminded him. "We won't have time to look at the cars; if it's even open that early."

"Hey, there's always time to take a peek. But I'll be good. See you soon."

Quite loquacious in person, Cam had developed something akin to a phobia about talking on cell phones and flat refused to use text messaging. But then he, like Rodney, also talked as much with his hands and through his tonal range, none of which came across when you weren't face to face.

John could take or leave cell phones; they were convenient and less of a leash than a beeper, plus the sound and range capabilities reminded him of his old helicopter set up. This was not to say he regretted separating from the Air Force; he could have fought the recommendation after all and likely kept his rank if not his posting, but he hadn't. The Air Force had been a big part of his life for a lot of important years and, truthfully, most of his memories of his time serving were good.

It was just that the few bad ones were really, really bad.

"He's running late," John filled in for Rodney. Rodney was perpetually curious even about things that weren't any of his business. "You will be too if you don't finish up here."

"If I'd wanted a mother, I would have gotten married," Rodney groused good-naturedly, but stuffed the rest of his toast in his mouth and pushed back from the table.

John simply gave him a look.

"Oh, you know what I mean," Rodney quickly tried to swallow, his expression a cross between apprehension and mild annoyance. " _You_ are my not so secret mistress."

John gave him a dirty grin. "Yeah, everyone knows _Radek's_ your wife." He let Rodney sputter and started to clean up the detritus of their breakfast.

One of the areas he'd expected the most trouble from Rodney in coming here – in going anywhere on vacation – was that Rodney would not allow anyone in to clean the rooms or deal with room service leftovers while they weren't present. Rodney's paranoia about people touching his equipment back at Pegasus was legendary, with even John having to obtain permission to use one of Rodney's many laptops. The trouble hadn't materialized the way he'd imagined, however.

John hadn't anticipated that Rodney was going to bring his laptop everywhere: restaurants; his conference; while they went sightseeing. Although he guessed he should have. It wasn't allowed on the gaming floor of course, but backpacks and purses were, so while Rodney wasn't really planning on gambling, he'd still purchased a designer carryall that could hold his laptop and his tablet, plus one of the five different external drives he'd brought along. The case also had two side pockets just the right size for bottled water, something that Rodney hadn't believed necessary when John had first mentioned their importance. It had taken only four hours and two blown infra-red computer mice for Rodney to learn the lesson about hydrating and the build up of static electricity in a climate where people boasted spoke in awe when it reached seven percent humidity.

So the only things that could be stolen from their room was their clothing; all of John's stuff – he hadn't bothered to bring a laptop as his Blackberry would suffice for his needs (and he always kept an iPod in his pocket) – and the myriad of souvenirs they'd both started collecting to bring back with them for their friends. Their excess cash went into the room safe, along with the external drives Rodney wasn't using at any given time, and Rodney's spare laptop.

"I'm sure part of the money we're spending is specifically for maid service," Rodney laughed upon his return from their bedroom.

Maybe Rodney _wasn't_ going to be weird about people coming into their room unattended.

John looked down, not really having paid attention, and realized that he'd done more than just stack the dishes and leftovers back onto the cart that had been left with them; he'd simply been moving to stretch his knee from its morning stiffness and let his hands stay busy. Of course, he had been a little anal about leaving his CHU straight too; too many times coming back in after a late night rescue operation during black-out conditions in Kosovo – or from helping one of his buddies back to their quarters after a night's liberty – had trained him into making sure there wasn't anything left out that you could trip over, slip on, or fall into, except for his bunk. This hotel room had a small kitchen they'd not yet used, and tea towels for just in case, so washing and wiping down the glass table top had been automatic, as had been rinsing and stacking the used dishes. Okay, the last was more from ingrained chores from childhood than eating at the DFAC, but …

"Hey, at least I didn't make the bed this morning," he defended himself mildly.

"Only because I was still in it when you first got up," Rodney snorted back. He then spread his arms wide and gave a twirl. "So, am I presentable as a representative for our Fearless Leader?"

Even though John knew that Rodney was only fishing for a compliment, this one was easy to give. Rodney, the beleaguered academic and oppressed DoD slave, had had the fashion sense of … well, a geek. The few pictures Jeannie had managed to save from the 'Great Purge of Rodney's Life Before Pegasus' had even showed Rodney with the requisite pocket protector, although she'd mentioned that had changed once the first Apple Newton had come on the market; styluses never leak.

Rodney, the Head of Scientific Research for the Pegasus Holding Group and Elizabeth's nominal second-in-command, however, had quickly become not only Elizabeth's sometimes stand-in for interviews, but also one of her proudest trophies. He was often expected to participate in Elizabeth's meetings with Heads of State and the elite of the corporate and philanthropic worlds. And while Geek Chic had its place at those events, it had been Rodney's own choice, with a little 'encouragement' from his sister, to take a page out of Peter Grodin's – and John's – own books about personal grooming for public functions, deciding to let Carson Beckett, Radek Zelenka and many of the other scientists and researchers to play the part of the perpetual lab monkeys.

It had still taken a swift kick and ridicule of Rodney's various bank balances by Jeannie to convince Rodney that having clothes tailored made wouldn't bankrupt him, and that they looked much better than those just bought off the rack. Along with Carson rather publicly pointing out one day before a full lunch crowd, that having a personal shopper wasn't going to make Rodney any _more_ gay.

John also liked to think that his personal … appreciation for a well-dressed Rodney had its own part to play in Rodney coming around to style.

Not that John didn't find Rodney in an old t-shirt and boxers, or in his ratty gray sweatshirt hoodie and a pair of ripped jeans also pretty damn sexy. Or when he was wearing one of _John's_ old ratty t-shirts or sweats –

"Well?"

"I do like this gray better than the tan, or even the brown." John gave him a once over that he'd intended to be more thoughtful than lustful.

John would be the first to admit he didn't know a thing about color combinations other than if everything other than your uniforms was black, you didn't end up putting on brown socks with black pants in the dark. John, however, did know what he liked, and while the lighter colors that Rodney often favored for his shirts did fine with the browns and tans or blue jeans, he preferred Rodney to wear more jewel-toned color shirts that better complemented Rodney's amazing eyes. Those colors worked better with gray tones – and blacks – but Rodney was still pretty much holding out against black in some sort of protest over John's own limited closet.

This mid-tone gray jacket worked well with any color of blue shirt that Rodney chose, like today's lighter pastel, and the lighter gray fine pin striping on the jacket gave it a classic edge even as Rodney was wearing it with dark gray jeans in deference to leaving directly from the interview for the conference – where showing up in a full business suit might get comments from some of the more jealous of Rodney's peers. No doubt the paisley tie would end up stuffed into his backpack before the taxi made the trip from the Wynn to the Riviera.

"And I am very much looking forward to stripping you out of it tonight."

"Well, then, the sooner we get this day started, the soon the unveiling can come about," Rodney promised with a smug smile as they moved in concert toward the door

If only his eyes didn't still hold just the faintest bit of doubt – not in John's promise or intentions – just in his desire. They'd come far in getting Rodney to believe, just not quite far enough.

"Hey, where are you going?" John asked as they left the elevator on the casino level and Rodney immediately began pulling away. John slipped a light hold on Rodney's wrist and reeled him back to John's side as he moved to get them out of the traffic flow.

"Oh, right, sorry," Rodney fussed and planted a quick kiss on John's lips. "Sorry," he then repeated and again began moving away.

John didn't let go. "Rodney?"

Yeah, there were a few people around; most just looking mildly amused instead of being disgusted, and no one was outwardly scolding or casting curses on them. John wasn't big on public displays, which Rodney knew, so he waited and watched as his pet genius tried to put the pieces together, starting with the fact that John still hadn't released his hand.

" _"Oh_!" came the moment of revelation after only a few seconds. "You want me to meet your military buddy _now_ in case you don't make it for lunch."

It still came out as more of a question than a conclusion.

John bit back a sigh. "You did indicate you wanted to meet him," he reminded Rodney with only a hint of reproach in his tone. "And you still have a couple minutes. If Cam's not there I'll let you go, but I would like for you to meet one of my best friends."

It wasn't like Rodney had avoided meeting John's friends from before Pegasus, just that most of them were dead.

Tugging gently, he got Rodney moving in the right direction alongside of him. It wasn't practical to keep holding hands. Although winter in Vegas was the 'slow' time, there were still plenty of tourists and visitors milling about, gawking at some of the features that had made the Wynn the most expensive, privately funded construction project ever undertaken in the US – other than Pegasus.

"I'm sorry," Rodney began muttering an apology again as they weaved through the crowds. "I just figured you wouldn't want to – "

John frowned. "Rodney, I don't wear pink or wave a rainbow and a picture of you during the interviews because the interviews are supposed to be about Pegasus or the puddlejumper, not about some former military guy coming out. I'm not embarrassed about being gay, _certainly_ not embarrassed about being with you, and if they ever do allow gay marriages, I'll be the first in line if that's also what you want. If my friends can't deal …"

Rodney's cheeks pinked but he still shuffled in front of John, bringing their progress to a halt as he turned and placed both hands on John's shoulders. John manfully avoided shifting his eyes to see just how many more people they had around them here, since that would kind of negate his declaration, but he couldn't help arching his brow when Rodney still hesitated after starting such a big production.

The goad worked every time. Just before Rodney mashed their lips together in a display more enthusiastic than elegant, John thought he heard a quickly muttered, "I accept", and he couldn't stop the grin that pretty much messed up the kiss from his side too. He brought up his own hands to cup Rodney's jaw and the back of Rodney's neck to direct things a little better for the next one.

"Oooh, someone's going to get a new Gran Turismo," a woman shouted out amidst a few catcalls and claps as they finally pulled away from one another.

"Nah, he designs better cars than that," Rodney shot back out while giving John a one-armed hug and making sure it was John's turned to flush in embarrassment. Rodney wasn't going quite so far as to take a bow, but he was not forgoing accepting this attention as accolades that were his due, for once not uncomfortable to be in the spotlight about something other than his science.

"I thought you were designing spacecraft?" a low voice drawled from behind John.

John turned them swiftly, biting back a small moan and a wince as he kept forgetting he couldn't just pivot on his knee like that quite yet. Rodney had played nursemaid long enough that he'd already anticipated John's wobble and had tightened his grip around John's waist. That he forewent the scolding that normally came with such help was something John would have to thank him for later.

"The spacecraft idea was all Holland's baby," John managed to get out with only a little catch in his throat.

It had been four years since Dave Kleinman's death, four and a half since Holland had died in his arms, and five since Mitch and Dex had been taken out by an RPG. And it was still too damn difficult for John to talk about those four guys, all of whom he'd met when he'd been a freshly minted Lieutenant. (Mitchell's friendship had come years later.)

John then shrugged. "Spacecraft might go faster than anything else, but after the initial thrust at take-off, you can't feel the speed. I'm happy to stick to cars and airplanes."

Once Dave had been gone, there'd been no good reason for John to stay with Zoom Aeronautics, although he still did some consulting work for Maggie Holland from time to time. Not that she really needed him; Zoom hadn't managed to snag the Ansari X PRIZE, but just being in the competition had gotten the 'Little Company That Could' all the contacts and funding Mags would ever need to keep her husband's dream alive.

"And yet you preferred to be a rotor jockey." Cam shook his head in mock disgust as he let John and Rodney come to him.

Cam had always been the type of guy who looked good with a military cut; the fact that there was some gray now at his temples certainly hadn't made things worse. In deference to them playing golf at the Wynn, John assumed, Cam was wearing khakis instead of jeans. And a pull over sweater, though John would bet good money he had a t-shirt on underneath instead of a button-down shirt. Cam was also carrying a cane, but not leaning on it as he stood there.

"He could have become the next Chuck Yeager," Cam then directed toward Rodney. "Well, maybe the next _Jeana_ Yeager. But instead he chose to become another Alan Bristow."

"Who?" Rodney asked politely.

Cam grinned widely and slapped John on his shoulder. "Exactly."

"Alan Bristow was a Fleet Air Arm helicopter pilot, a member of the French Foreign Legion and a former Chief Test Pilot before he started his own private company that ended up becoming the leading civilian supplier of SAR services and of military helicopter pilot training in the UK," John filled Rodney in, with a token glare Cam's direction. "Something that Cam should be very thankful for, since it was the Brits who found him, the first time Cam went down."

"You were shot down more than once?"

Cam ducked his head for a moment at Rodney's question and then brought it back up with his own glare aimed in John's direction. John knew Cam wasn't upset about the redirect since they both had reasons not to talk about the _last_ time Cam had needed to be picked up by Combat Search and Rescue.

"I, ah, wasn't exactly shot down the first time – "

"First _two_ times," John interrupted.

"Hey, the second time was not my fault!" Cam protested. "You try maneuvering after a flock of goddamn seagulls get scooped up in your intake. And I would have landed just fine if I hadn't been in an F-16."

"Only one engine," John finished the explanation. "Birds got sucked up; engine flamed out and down went _Tennessee Tuxedo_."

"No one calls me that anymore," Cam growled. "And if I remember correctly, your call sign back then was Calvin, as in the comic strip _Calvin and Hobbes _.. Because of the hair, which I see is still the same. Man, do you still have that stuffed tiger Marks found?"__

John shook his head. "I turned it over to one of the nurses in Ramstein. It was a big toon thing," John then elaborated off of Rodney's look of utter confusion. "The naming started when one of the first missions was named Operation Clan McDuck and all of the flights were Huey, Dewey, Louie, Scrooge and the like. Some of the guys decided to find better call signs for the pilots and spent way too much time reading comics. It took a couple of months before they were satisfied, but that deployment only lasted a couple of months more, so we all ended up elsewhere and those names pretty much faded into obscurity."

"Some of the guys still call Emerson _Jiminy Cricket_ , but not to his face since he made Colonel," Cam offered

"Guy by the name of Paul Emerson," John explained, and vowed to change the subject since he and Cam had all morning to reminisce about old military buddies, not that he really expected they would. Rodney was beginning to look frustrated more than bored; John really never talked about his military service and no doubt Rodney was gleaning everything he could to quiz John about later – or to Google. But they were talking about men and situations that Rodney didn't even have a common language for, and nothing drove Rodney to walk away worse than people talking over his head.

"Emerson was a little … gung ho about the I-told-you-sos when the rest of us maybe ignored one of the rules or forgot one of the regs. He never tried to stop someone or turn them in, but he had taken it upon himself to be the group's conscience."

John gestured to Rodney before Cam could come up with anyone else. "Cam, this is my partner, Rodney – _Doctor_ Rodney McKay," he corrected himself with a smile before Rodney could. "Rodney is Pegasus' Head of Scientific Research, with multiple degrees and doctorates in subjects you wouldn't understand, so don't even ask," he added with a little dig at Cam.

Guys like Cam, Emerson and Ellis had been why John had kept his own interest in the science behind the job they'd been doing in the military private. Cam certainly wasn't stupid and had a Master's in Military History to back up any claim to the contrary, but he'd been the first to make a joke when John and the rest of the Zoom gang would talk design or engineering, while guys like Emerson and Ellis would just wander away, bored.

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor McKay," Cam offered his hand, setting his cane deftly against the floor for balance just in case the hand shake got a little awkward. From the quick look he gave to where John and Rodney still had their arms around each other's waist, John knew he was dying to ask about the partner comment, but the innate southern gentleman in Cam precluded him from doing so in public.

Rodney accepted the handshake, his eyes only flickering once to the cane, although the remaining speculation on his face had John wondering if Rodney was sizing up one for John. He'd gone from crutches to standing free with no need for a cane in between, although Rodney still wasn't convinced that John wasn't just hiding his pain so as not to fuck up their vacation. John's knee still ached, but it didn't really hurt, and canes were too easily left behind when you weren't used to having one.

Besides, only Cam and the fictional Doctor House could make canes look sexy.

"Rodney, this is Cameron Mitchell, US Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, currently in charge of the MQ-1 Predator program and its deployment over Iraq?" John let his tone rise at the end, not sure if Cam was actually still involved in overseeing the unmanned drone's combat operations instead of now training others in their use.

"My team's working Afghanistan, actually. The search for Taliban holdouts; Bin Laden … blowing up the bad guys with Hellfire missiles."

"You do all of that remotely?" Rodney asked, showing a lot more interest.

"Oh, yeah," Cam gave a big grin. "Hey, if you've got time while you're here, you two should come out and see how it's done." At Rodney's somewhat skeptical look, Cam added, "Even an egghead like you would probably get a kick out of our Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Battlelab. It's mainly computer shit, a simulator and all, but it plays like a big damn video game, and now that I think about it, I seem to remember one of _our_ eggheads working with someone in your company doing some of the analysis. A Groosin, Gooselin…"

"Grodin?" John offered.

"Yeah, English guy, with a real head for weapon trajectories. He's been out a couple of times to watch first hand what we're trying to handle."

"Maybe we will," Rodney prevaricated, no doubt juggling worry about what might happen should John get back on an Air Force Base with his need to better know what the people under him were involved in.

John knew that Rodney didn't micro-manage _all_ of his employees. He had probably signed off on Peter Grodin's proposals and projects with barely a glance through them, as Peter was one of the few scientists that Rodney implicitly trusted to do their jobs with minimal need for supervision. No, Rodney's biggest problems were curiosity and ego, which when combined, had him thinking that he needed to be able to step in at any time on any of his people's projects and take over if something was going wrong. While this did sometimes make him a Jack of all Trades, Rodney would never fall into the master of none part of the cliché; he simply was the unparalleled genius that he claimed to be. This also meant that Rodney had a tendency to overwork himself, including occasionally losing sight of his own projects, since some of the other scientists were starting to count on his brilliant back-stop.

"But not today." John made a point of checking his watch: six shy of eight. "We've all got places we're expected to be in the next few minutes, and – "

"Right, well, keep the offer in mind and just give me a call if your schedules work out. At this point both of your security clearances are probably higher than mine since you're cavorting with the President. I can't imagine getting you on base to be a problem," Cam promised. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor McKay."

"You too," Rodney offered perfunctorily, without giving Cam's name back, probably because he'd already forgotten Cam's rank and didn't want to embarrass himself by getting it wrong.

John grinned and gave Rodney a quick kiss before letting him go. He then kept his attention on Rodney's ass until he passed out of sight. Cam's eyes were comically wide when John turned back to his friend.

"Seriously, Shep, you're gay?"

"Bi, technically, but I'm also monogamous, so I guess at the moment you're right, I am gay." John kept his expression neutral as they, in turn, started off toward the golf course. "You got a problem with it?"

Cam immediately began shaking his head and brought a hand up defensively. "Shit, no, man! It's cool – _I'm_ cool. I'm just also fucking surprised. I mean … well … well you wouldn't believe how much some of the guys used to live vicariously through their assumptions of your exploits; what with the way those women practically threw themselves on you every time we got liberty. Or how that little defense contractor all the guys called Kelly McInnis – "

"Charlotte Mayfield?"

"Yeah, her," Cam agreed and nodded with remarkable enthusiasm.

He was using his cane to walk at this point, but more because people automatically got out of their way than from any real need, John hoped. Otherwise they might not even get five holes in this morning.

"After Mayfield, Ziplinski actually went so far as to have a 'drippin in trim' t-shirt sent from the States for you, but he pussied out of handing it over."

The thought of 6' 3", Master Sergeant T. M. "Ziplip" Ziplinski 'pussying' out of anything surprised a laugh out of John. Ziplip had gone to college on a football scholarship before switching over to avionics and flight mechanics. He'd actually been fitter in the Air Force than he'd been while playing all-conference ball, his near two hundred seventy-five pounds being all muscle. He'd been the Line Chief for the F-15E squadron during Operations _Southern_ and _Northern Watch_.. Ziplip feared nothing and no one; he had actually kept tally of how many pilots he made cry. His heroes were R. Lee Emory, Red West and, apparently, one John Sheppard, though for an invalid reason.

After his marriage with Nancy had failed, John really hadn't given anyone that much of his attention. Not until Pegasus and Rodney. "The guys had way too much time on their hands at Incirlik, and shockingly limited imaginations if they were living through me," John chuffed. He'd not dated anyone in Turkey and certainly not Charlotte Mayfield.

"Yeah, well, they certainly weren't making t-shirts for me," Cam groused as they checked in and picked up the golf bags that John had brought with him and allowed the club to store for him during his stay.

John grinned and let Cam push him past the golf carts. "That's because Kerry was scarier than even Ziplip."

The whole point of this exercise was _exercise_ ; although John would lay good odds on both of them regretting not getting one before they were two hours into the round. John saw no reason the same type of rehabilitation he'd become familiar with after Kosovo wouldn't work for a little arthroscopy surgery recovery too, especially since Carson thought he'd be able to okay John for a resumption of his standard fitness training, including jogging, within a couple more weeks.

"Kerry didn't even let you look at someone else," John reminded his companion smugly.

Kerry Johnson had been a CIA Field Agent, there in Turkey to keep track of certain assets. For a while, Cam had been one of her favorites.

Cam nodded with a laugh. "And after she and I broke up…. well, by the time I'd regrown my balls, I decided I'd try to sever my foot instead." He then shrugged deprecatingly. "Got me a purple heart, shipped home for a shiny new post on the ground, and slept through my recovery or was too over-medicated to register the bevy of nurses who no doubt doted on me."

"Boo hoo." John gestured toward the foursome ahead of them that indeed, could have been showgirls, actresses or models. "Now you have a city full of showgirls and the beach bunnies from LA who come in every weekend in the winter."

"Only any book written about my love life would still have blank pages," Cam moaned pitifully. "I'm mean, I can see why House is so damn pissed off all the time, and I'm not talking about being in his level of pain. The women see the cane and either want to mother me or they think more than my leg doesn't work properly."

"Well, there is that problem with your brain and your mouth – "

"Nice, Shep, real nice. I could say the same for you. I mean, I could give a flying fuck that you're with a guy right now, but your Doctor Rodney McKay isn't exactly _GQ_ material."

"Rodney's looks suit me just fine," John growled. "And Rodney's seriously smart. Like if Steven Hawking and Albert Einstein had a love child, Rodney would still be a thousand times smarter than little Hawk Einstein. Or think of William Griffin times a million," John grinned at Cam's confusion and invoked the lead F-15E squadron commander in Incirlik. Griffin had been the ultimate geek pilot, a wizard with all the new tech they'd been sent to test and play with on the front lines, plus he'd had the tactical savvy to utilize it to insure the best possible outcome for his men.

"Hey, I may not be the Brainiac you are, Shep, but I do know E=MC2 and the basic theory about wormholes. I do use trig, after all, to keep my Predators in the air without running into one another or any of the damn mountains of the Sanglakh Range."

"So how is that working for you?" John asked seriously as they stood to await their turn at the first tee.

"Las Vegas and Creech take some getting used to, but Kuwait, Turkey and Iraq did give me some prep for the extremes." Cam shrugged. "I didn't figure I'd get past not being up in a cockpit every day, but I've got a couple of buddies over at Nellis who give me full access to their subsonic trainers and another who'll take me up and let me play RIO in his F-18, though he can't go supersonic when I'm aboard. And, shit, flying a MQ-1 is just like playing a video game, only my monitor is a Hi Def 65" plasma screen, plus my plane's a first person shooter."

He suddenly grinned. "When I play against the little punks in the arcades who think they're hot shit just because they grew up on that stuff, they can't touch my high score. I may be only winning cokes over beers for the most part, but I'm also firmly teaching them to fear their elders."

John picked out a few tees from his back and held up his hand. "Odd," Cam called, to which John showed that there were four.

Cam stepped back good naturedly and asked, "What about you?" then paused when John set down his ball for his first shot.

John got in a decent swing and only a slight twinge in his knee in return, although he did slice it a bit.

"It's obvious that retirement hasn't treated you too badly if you're bidding on NASA and Air Force contracts and staying at a place like the Wynn for vacation," Cam commented, then approached his own tee shot. He didn't get the distance of John's shot, but his had stayed truer in line with the green.

"I get as much flight time as I want, even in the military birds, except there I have to put in way too much face time with the Top Brass," John griped. "On the plus side, lately that's included Hank Landry, who was one of the Generals involved in my hearing." John smirked this time.

"I'm sure that the fact that he has to listen to me this time around bugs him a lot more than me having to put up seeing his sour face regularly. And, for being a four-star, the CSAF, General O'Neill, is actually pretty funny. He's got dirt on everyone, from Landry on up to the President, who apparently served under O'Neill when she was a Captain."

"So you don't miss it?" Cam asked as they slowly made their way toward their balls.

"You mean the heat and the sand, the oh dark thirty wake-up calls and the moments of sheer terror when a Fox One has you painted?"

"You forgot the dysentery, the general lack of deodorant, and the fact that all of the natives hate you."

"I miss it every fucking day."

"Yeah, me too, man. Me too."  


*****

Rodney wasn't aware of having expectations, but if he had had them, the woman who introduced herself as Laura Cadman as he'd gone breezing into the coffee shop didn't match. He had, after all, read her resume and service record, found them to be rather predictable but satisfactory on paper. He'd then hacked into a couple of government databases and servers to see what might have been fabricated, embellished or left out, and been pleasantly surprised to find that the former Marine Lieutenant was pretty much as she'd represented herself, accomplishment and education-wise.

Just not at all what he'd pictured.

To start with, she was tiny, no taller than Miko and smaller than the female Doogie Howser who was Carson's Chief of Medicine. Cadman also had strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that made her look like she should currently be in classes at UNLV instead of sitting across the table from him. While Rodney knew not all military women wore their hair short like Sam had, he'd also not thought they could have it that long either, especially not a Marine explosives expert who'd plied her trade near a front line or two. Of course, she was retired out four years ago according to her CV, so she might have gone with the long hair thing as a rebellion against the former rules, like John did.

How quickly did women's hair grow anyway?

Or maybe she was looking to be hired as a showgirl if the Pegasus job prospect didn't pan out.

"Thank you for fitting me into your schedule, Doctor McKay," she offered after she'd taken her first sip of coffee. "I've got a review of the Stardust later this morning that will probably take the rest of the day. We're putting in our bid to be part of number fourteen."

Rodney blinked; from the expression on her face, those words were obviously supposed to mean something.

"My company's bidding on providing the fireworks when they bring down the Stardust so that construction on the new Echelon Place can get underway," she elaborated. "The Stardust will be the fourteenth casino/resort implosion within Vegas since 1993 and the destruction of the Dunes. We lost the bid to bring it down to a New York company, but they'd decided to do the old girl right with a full fireworks show before hand, so if we get that part of the deal, it'll be the third casino implosion I've personally been involved in. My crew were the ones who did the Palms Tower that had been part of DI, and later Castaways."

"This is my first trip to Vegas," Rodney blurted, not sure why he was discomforted by this slip of a woman, except she was meeting his gaze directly without any of the usual awe his own credentials generally produced. Nor had she even started to look at her menu, so Rodney felt he shouldn't ignore her to study his own –

"Right now we're sitting in what used to be part of DI – the Desert Inn," she clarified. "Howard Hughes bought it when they tried to kick him out if his regular apartment for some high rollers. This is where the Rat Pack played and the original _Ocean's Eleven_ was filmed. Well, not _here_ here, of course, but in the _former_ here. Most of the new resorts are places of ghosts and history."

Rodney frowned. "I'm surprised you're considering leaving. Won't you leaving your company mess up their bid on the Starlost?"

"It's more ghosts than history here, Doctor McKay, especially for a place like the _Stardust_ ," she corrected him mildly, considering. "My company will get along just fine without me if it comes to that. It's not like we _all_ don't look elsewhere from time to time. The Stardust will be implosion number fourteen over twenty freaking years. It's not like we're brimming with business, unless we want to travel the country. I got enough of travel in the Marines."

She frowned in return. "Most of us take jobs at the resorts, a few of us lucky ones get to work the pyrotechnic stuff for some of the shows, but otherwise, it's dealing cards, bussing tables or cleaning rooms to make ends meet. Now, I also tap dance, but for some reason they all want their dancers to be five foot nine or taller."

Cadman didn't look remotely embarrassed after such a declaration, but did gesture her chin toward the woman who'd come back twice to fill their coffee already. Yeah, their waitress could be a show girl in waiting, but even more so she was obviously waiting to take their order. Rodney took the hint and opened his menu, although at this point between meeting one of John's military friends and then this … Marine, he wasn't sure he was very hungry.

After seeing the waitress off with very clear instructions on how no citrus had better be even on the plates _next_ to Rodney's, he leaned back and tapped the folder he'd removed from his backpack, although he had no intention in opening it.

"So why should Pegasus hire you, former Lieutenant Laura Cadman?"

Okay, from her look of uncertainty , he supposed he could have phrased it better. But the question was still valid. If Elizabeth had wanted this one treated with kid gloves, she shouldn't have sent Rodney to conduct the interview.

"I could say I want to work for Pegasus because I've read all the press on the company and Doctor Weir, and because I'm totally on board with what she's trying to accomplish with her wealth." Cadman grinned abruptly over the rim of her coffee cup as she turned the question around, then took another drink.

"Or that as a woman, it's very important for me to support and be involved with someone like Doctor Weir, who I can be assured of as not being sexist and discriminatory – something I've had to deal with quite a bit as you might imagine," she continued. "But mainly, it's because I like to blow shit up. I'm very, very good at it and the Atlantis project sounds neat. I'm still not sure if having so many ex-military on the payroll will be a good or bad thing for me, but at least I know how those type of men think. I'm very good at dealing with them too. It also sounds like the pyro effects you guys are going to be producing are straight out of Hollywood. Hollywood would be good for someone like me too, but I refuse to move to LA – or reenlist. So if I want to keep up in my field and its cutting-edge technology, Pegasus and Atlantis sounds like a perfect fit," she ended with a little flourish and then looked expectantly at Rodney.

Who was saved by the arrival of Cadman's yoghurt while she waited for her main course of eggs, waffles and bacon.

Rodney's reprieve was only temporary, as her first course wasn't holding her attention anywhere near as much as Rodney's face. "Look, do you even know how Pegasus works?" he blurted. "There have been several articles written, so anyone can do the basic research – "

She scowled around her spoon. "I do know how to use the internet, McKay."

He frowned at this use of just his last name instead of his title as she'd started out with, but wasn't sure how to point out her the disrespect or if she'd even care.

"Yes, well, good," he finally responded with a new frown. "Elizabeth refuses to make that a mandatory requirement for _all_ employees despite my recommendation and – "

"You were going to fill me in on the juicy details, though, right?" she interrupted him.

Caught off guard by her rudeness, Rodney escaped behind his cup of coffee, then slowly put it down because he'd finished it, not because she was goading him. Rodney found himself starting to tap his fingers against the file folder again. (Not the infuriating woman's resume, but instead a proposal from Peter Grodin that Rodney had brought along in case the interview became a complete bust, yet he'd still be stuck sitting across from her while they finished breakfast.)

"Fine," he huffed at last. "Basically, it is the socialists' utopia all the papers claim. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, from the janitors, lab assistants and right on up to the CFO and Elizabeth Weir herself, draw the same base salary. That happens to be twelve thousand dollars a year after taxes, or a grand a month in cash." Rodney leveled his own spoon at her even though he'd not been able to use it for anything other than stirring his coffee so far.

"And yes, having your taxes prepared by one of the company accountants is one of the employee benefits. You're not obligated to use one of them, but I don't know of anyone who doesn't."

How long did it take to cook waffles and French toast anyway?

"Additionally," he huffed, "another twelve thousand dollars net is put aside annually for a 401K savings fund. Now, depending on whether you're coming in with a family: spouse; kids; invalid mother…"

She shook her head at his pause.

"Okay, so someone like you would get the use of a two bedroom apartment in one of the residential towers. They're all furnished with the basics," like an IKEA catalogue had exploded and spewed forth though he refrained from mentioning that, "including a dedicated T-3 line per tower and satellite tv uplink. If you've a yen for something unique or extravagant or want to bring some of your own milk crates and cinder block shelves, that's on your own dime, though I think there is a one time moving allowance granted for new employees. If you don't have your own computer, someone from IT will come over and set you up. If you ask, they'll also look over what you already have and do the necessary upgrades instead."

Cadman's look of mild apprehension turned to one of intrigue at that, so maybe there was some hope for her yet.

"Basically each apartment has a bedroom per person living there, plus one additional, then bathrooms requisite to the number of people by some arcane formula, a living room, dining nook and a kitchen, if cooking's your thing. There is a big general store – a PX, I guess folks like you call it – where you can pick up the staples, including food, for which every employee gets a weekly allowance of one hundred dollars. If you don't cook, there are cafeterias, cafes and delis scattered throughout the campus that you can frequent with your allowance. Sorry, no McDonalds or KFC, you'd have to go into Farmington, Durango or Gallup. They're twenty, eighty and eighty miles respectively, more or less, although the trip to Durango is definitely two hours plus, and that's not during winter, due to the mountain roads."

Judging by the plain, but attractive clothing she wore, and that her makeup was light and discreet, maybe Cadman wasn't the rabid shopper Rodney's sister was. And by the trimness of her body (not that he had paid any particular attention since she was a woman), it didn't look like she spent that much time in fast food places.

"You'll get a storage space-cum-garage, if you have a bunch of stuff including a vehicle, though there are employee shuttles and buses that run from the residential section over to the labs and admin buildings every half hour from seven am to midnight, so you don't _have_ to worry about driving. Every other day there's a bus that heads into Farmington that anyone can catch a ride with, plus once a week there's a bus or two that head down to Gallup. And John's talked one of them into making a weekly run up into Colorado when they can get through the snow, for skiing."

Not that John had been able to partake this year because of his knee, although he had managed to coax Rodney to go along with him once just to hang out in the lodge for a couple of days. It maybe hadn't completely sucked.

"What about medical benefits?" Cadman asked seriously.

"We've a whole medical research division with scores of doctors on hand, some of who take a rotation in the on-site clinic and pharmacy. The clinic is run directly by Jennifer Keller, an emergency trauma doctor, who has ten nurses working two per shift, trading off to cover three shifts a day, under her. If necessary, another doctor or two can be called from Research to handle multiple, simultaneous cases, and specialists have been brought in as needed. But if you're going to require long term hospital care, you'll be transferred down to Gallup, as we don't have the facilities. There is also an in-house psychiatrist and a psychologist, both of whom handle patients as well as perform studies. Plus there are a handful of therapists, although some of them, while certified, only do that as a volunteer, while they hold a different full-time job for the company.

"That's the other big thing at Pegasus," Rodney said somewhat defensively. Putting everything out in such black and white terms made it all sound more like a socialist's nightmare instead of a utopia.

"There are plenty of recreation areas, pool and ping-pong tables, a bowling alley, six different gyms and a couple of jogging trails, plus a central set of servers dedicated to holding just about every DVD available on the market and every eBook for downloading. There's a research library that rivals any major university's and that's even before the homage to the Library of Alexandria that's going into Atlantis. Additionally there are way too many scheduled social events, like weekly bookclubs, fantasy sports leagues, origami or martial arts training. So there are plenty of things to do in your down time if you want something other than vegging out at your TV all the time, or surfing the net for bad porn." He gave her a thin grin when she offered him a much wider and more predatory one.

He narrowed his eyes in her direction; her bluntness and glee in making things go boom might just be enough to counteract that she was female for John to like her and maybe want her working for him.

"But many of those things only work because people volunteer," he informed her.

Lorne would be interested too, no doubt, but would be put off by still being mired by fraternization rules, as well as worrying about chain of command issues unless Rodney took a direct hand.

"Elizabeth hired a janitorial staff, landscapers and even some teachers to help set up home schooling curricula for those employees who have kids, but a lot of the non work events are organized and overseen by employees on their own, with no real company oversight. No one _has_ to volunteer of course, but if your schedule or job isn't one of the insane ones like mine, there will be peer pressure to turn a hobby into some kind of adult education class. Like once they find out you tap dance, I'm sure you'll have any number of people asking you to coordinate some sort of weekly session."

"Sorry, folks, there's been a little kerfluffle in the kitchen, and your breakfasts are going to have to be started over," their waitress suddenly interrupted, although at least she brought more coffee and left the pot. She also dropped off a bowl of yoghurt for Cadman and a small plate of pastries, though they didn't look nearly as good as the ones made by his personal chef at the Wynn.

"The tab, of course, is on the house because of the wait," the waitress concluded before moving over to the next table and delivering some more bad news.

"So, for doing my job – oh, I assume there is some leeway in how I'd want to set my hours?"

Rodney nodded, still a little distracted by the delay on their food.

"So, for doing the job I've been hired for, whether it takes me twenty hours a week or sixty, I get room, board, a monthly cash allowance of basically disposable income, a savings/retirement plan, full medical and my own personal gym and recreation center. Plus, in a few more months, free access to a resort-slash-amusement park that is part Disneyworld, part Branson Missouri, and part biodome," Cadman summed up. "And the unstated requirements for my job include volunteering to do something I enjoy anyway, as part of bonding with my coworkers. I would guess I'm not looking at any pay raises in my future? So the opportunities for advancement are…?" She stopped and raised an elegantly shaped eyebrow.

"Yes to the no pay raises, but I forgot to mention that one percent of the company's net profits are set aside each year for a bonus payout, again split evenly between every employee no matter their position. So the better the company does, the better everyone comes out of it." He snapped his fingers at her.

"Regarding advancement, that's up to you and your supervisor and the job you do versus the job you want. There is a way set up for you to distinguish yourself and make some extra income if that's one of your goals."

"Okay … " she then drew out in the silence that followed as he inclined his head in her direction and took the time to refill both their cups of coffee when she nodded.

"Okay, right, well, everyone, _again_ , whether bottle washer, executive secretary or design engineer…" Rodney forced himself to slow down and take a deep breath; this after all had been the selling point for him and was still about the coolest thing he'd ever been involved in outside of his relationship with John.

"Everyone can come up with personal projects – research, development, recreational or educational, it doesn't matter – and you run it past your boss for basic approval and to make sure it's not going to interfere with you doing your job. If the project is something that could enhance Pegasus' bottom line, you'll be encouraged to write up a proposal and run it past a committee that will consist of your boss again, the head of the department your project would naturally fall under, and three other random department heads from anywhere within the company. If the project gets their approval, you'll be entitled to draw upon a portion of the company's R&D budget to test it out. During that stage, you'd be expected to submit a weekly report to someone from the overseeing department, who then becomes sort of like a thesis advisor – a mentor as well as a watchdog. Oh, you will have the right to request someone different if the two of you don't get along," he added quickly.

As it stood right now, Rodney was advising only Miko in this type of arrangement, even though seventeen other projects had been under his purview as little as two weeks ago and fifteen of them weren't yet completed or abandoned. He expected folks to bail on him though, and it was a constant source of amusement as to how many people requested Radek instead; Radek was horrible at saying no.

"Once a month you'd put together a presentation to your boss and the overseeing department head, so they can evaluate whether it's still viable to continue on the company's tab." Rodney paused to see if she had any more questions or comments to add at this point, but she just signaled with her yoghurt spoon for him to continue.

"Okay, if they keep saying yes, you can continue to pursue the project for as long as it takes, with no built in arbitrary deadline. Well, as long as you're not just squandering the money away into something like proving pyramid power or tuning chakra crystals," he added with a wave to dismiss the stupid ideas for what they were. Once more Rodney banished his thoughts of the idiot who'd tried to waste his time approving just those projects. He'd been waved away too, although he thought Simpson had taken Coombs into her department instead of him being fired outright.

"Your research will also remain your private property, although part of your project approval includes a non-competition clause, meaning you'll have to sit on your research for five years before you can take it to someone outside Pegasus should you decide you want to," Rodney warned. "Even if you never produce a prototype much less a finished project, you won't be required to reimburse the company or anything like that, but it will undoubtedly affect your review for a different personal project afterward. If you do get to the prototype stage and want to continue, you then present your project all over again to a larger committee for review, who will then decide whether or not the company wants to produce it.

"Look, I guess the easiest way to explain all this would be with a real life example," Rodney interrupted himself. "Evan Lorne, who'll probably be your boss if we hire you, is a former Air Force … a pilot, I think. He also happens to be a pretty good artist. The art was why he was hired by the way, to help produce some of the visuals for the Atlantis project, although he handles some of the flight duties when someone needs to use one of the private aircraft. Anyway, Lorne also just happens to have a degree in geology. So he spends some of his off time spelunking and turning over rocks up in Colorado. He also serves on the company's environmental impact study committee that evaluates every expansion Pegasus considers as one of the resident experts. He came on board as a graphic artist, has advanced to head the special effects department in just two years, and he is currently working on his Masters over some sort of rock thing."

Lorne had been suggested as a Pegasus candidate by John's friend Cam Mitchell. John had gone ahead and recruited him, plus he kept a friendly interest in Lorne's career. Which meant so did Rodney. He wasn't bad, for a jock and geologist, even if he and John did argue too often as to who was the better pilot in _Top Gun_ , Maverick or Iceman.

"A few months after Lorne started with us," Rodney continued with his explanation, "he got this idea in his head to create a computer game. He made the initial presentation, talked a few of his department cronies and a couple of the IT people into working on it with him, and together they came up with _Pirates Around the Moons of Vega_.. Which ended up as number nine in the top ten best selling PC games of last year. It was a private project that the company backed with design money and the use of equipment. Pegasus handled the production, the marketing and the distribution once the prototype was approved. And that initial design team now and in perpetuity, will split ten percent of the net profit; even if they leave the company somewhere down the line."

Rodney let that sink in for a moment while he tried a bite of the bearclaw. Not stale, but it was starting to dry out, thanks to Nevada weather and the extremely low humidity this time of year.

"Now the reverse is also true if you start to develop something here, but somewhere along the way the project gets dropped or you change your mind. If, after five years from the project's suspension you start it up again but shop it elsewhere, Pegasus will get ten percent of the net profit, while you and whatever organization who do finish and produce it will get the rest in what ever split you've negotiated. The ninety-ten/ten-ninety split, like your base salary, is a non-negotiable point in your contract, but it does also mean that you can make as much money as you have the ambition, spare time and skill for. It's the same for patents, a ten-ninety or a ninety-ten split, depending on where you finish the project."

Rodney currently held thirteen patents with Pegasus as the co-holder, beyond the four he'd developed before agreeing to Elizabeth's terms. John was only two shy of him in general, but had developed all but two of his patentable ideas under Zoom.

"So, is this the type of arrangement you think you can work under?"

Cadman smiled. "It sounds like a perfect fit. I have the qualifications and experience you're looking for, and I like what I hear. So where do I sign and when do I start?" she asked, talking around her spoon again.

"So do many others," Rodney pointed out with a lack of enthusiasm, now that she'd turned aggressive again.

True, she read as qualified, and now interested, but so did almost everyone once they heard the spiel, seeing only the perks without realizing how hard you really worked for them. This was why Rodney normally shied away from this part of the process, never knowing who to trust in the initial state or how to pick when he had multiple candidates to chose from. For his own research assistants and project leads, there were few candidates even qualified, and Rodney knew most of them at least by reputation if not personally before they were ever interviewed, and he chose his own employees based on who he could or could not work with, since the unqualified ones never made it beyond the circular file. But Cadman or whomever _wasn't_ going to be working directly under him, and it was really unfair of Elizabeth to put him in the position of being the one to quash or make Cadman's dreams. He was repulsed by her personally, yet thought she would be a good fit with Lorne, and he wasn't sure which impression he should follow.

She was shaking her head at him. "Actually, not all that many, McKay," she argued.

It took him a few seconds to remember she was answering about qualifications.

"Not that many, and I probably know most of them if they are ex US military, or belong to the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees union or the Special Effects and Pyrotechnic Operators Alliance," she continued before he could contradict her. "There just aren't that many of us in the business." She narrowed her eyes and fixed him with a stern stare that he deduced was supposed to be intimidating.

Maybe … if he'd been five.

"While I expect I'm not the only one who's applied for the job, anyone who's _better_ qualified also has a job with one of the big production companies," she told him. "So if they're looking now, it's more likely as a hedge against the probability of several Hollywood strikes later this year and next. Once those deadlines or the strikes are over, they're probably going to bail on you to go back to Bruckheimer, Bays and McG. I'm assuming you are not looking for someone to fill a temporary gig," she pointed her spoon at him, "or you'd just be hiring a consultant like you did Daniel Jackson."

He kept silent and just nodded, letting her make her case.

"Now, you can, of course, hire non union or spend the time training some other ex military munitions guy, but from what I understand, you're looking at an opening night by July, and that's not going to give you much time to make sure your pyrotechnics aren't just going to blow up your stage show instead of enhance it."

Rodney was saved from having to make a comment to that by the arrival of the rest of their food. He cut off a fork full of French toast almost before the waitress had the plate set down in front of him, only to find Cadman's hand snapping across the table to grab his before he could take a bite. About to berate her soundly, he then saw that she was pointing with her other hand to the curl of orange nearly hidden by his slices of bacon.

She might be brash, overconfident and too cute for her own good, but she _listened_..

"Y-you're hired."

## LIGHTS OUT FOR STRIP ICON  
 _Mar. 13, 2007  
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal  
By BENJAMIN SPILLMAN_

 _Stardust resort to meet its end in a moment months in the making …_

 _…In addition to timing the explosives, demolition workers had to coordinate the implosion with workers for Fireworks by Grucci, a Long Island, N.Y.-based pyrotechnics company that is choreographing a display to compliment the implosion. "We're creating the color and a little bit of that show pizzazz," said Phil Grucci, executive vice president of the company. The display will represent about half of what is used during New Year's Eve on the Strip, Grucci said._

 _The work isn't over when the towers fall …_

 **March 24, 2007**  
 **Devlin Medical Technologies parking lot**  
 **Buffalo, NY**

"Henry, may I have a word?"

With his driver stepping in front of him and stopping, Henry Wallace looked up from the file he'd been reviewing on his way to his car. Three men stood before them, the speaker being Mark Devlin, the son of the original owner of Henry's company when it had simply been Devlin Industries.

"Mark," Henry nodded his head. He handed off his briefcase and the folder to his driver, with a wave for him to continue on. While the men with Devlin had the look of bodyguards, Henry knew of no reason to fear for his safety.

Elias Devlin no longer ran the company, due to a heart attack two years ago. Yet Mark Devlin had been the first to pledge his shares for Henry's elevation from president to CEO when the younger Devlin could have convinced enough of the board members to support his own rise to take his father's position. Henry had always wondered when Mark would call in his marker and what the marker would entail. It looked like he was finally going to get his answer.

A raised eyebrow from Henry had Devlin dismissing his own men, so it was just the two of them within earshot.

"How can I help you, Mark?"

Mark's smile was brittle, much like the winter air around them, although the Vernal Equinox was only four days past; the Almanac claimed this year would be a bad one for cold and snow.

"I find myself in the embarrassing position of having to ask a favor, Henry."

Not that Henry believed for a moment that Devlin was actually embarrassed. Just frustrated, perhaps, that for all the money he'd inherited after his father's death and then selling off his shares to Henry, he still didn't have enough to get him whatever he needed. Henry had no doubt in his own abilities had he needed to start over somewhere other than Devlin Industries if Mark Devlin had decided his own skill was sufficient to run a successful company, just as Henry was also quite convinced that Devlin did not have such skill.

"Anything that is within my skill or sphere, Mark." Henry offered expansively.

If possible, Devlin's smile grew even more forced. "Yes, thank you, Henry. The nature of my dilemma is delicate and … distasteful, and I am loathe to call upon our friendship for such a matter. However," he continued when Henry would have prompted him to get on with it instead of continuing to fence with words.

"However, it is something you are uniquely in position to help me with, and something that I assure you will bring about no harm to _DMT_ ," Devlin pronounced.

Before Henry had made his quite generous offer to buy out Mark Devlin's shares, they had clashed contentiously over changing the company from a broader based technology company into one dealing solely with up and coming medical break-throughs, with Devlin citing the failure of the partnership with the Pegasus Group as his prime example of how large a mistake that would be.

Yet Henry had managed to steal away one of Elizabeth Weir's top researchers because of that failure, had then out-performed and outbid her for the Canadian and US government contract in designing and producing subcutaneous microchips for certain diplomats and other VIPs whose jobs entailed traveling into unstable regions like Pakistan, Russia and Iraq, where kidnappings for ransom or political coup were practically _de rigueur_.. Once Devlin Medical Technologies had begun selling the technology to private individuals and some of Henry's corporate counterparts (including Doctor Weir herself despite the failed partnership), company sales had risen thirty percent with profits up forty-two percent. The nano technology applications might not have worked out, but there were plenty of practical medical uses for such miniaturization of bio-compatible elements. Everyone knew such record profit growths couldn't be sustained, but all of the money that had been lost in the venture with Elizabeth Weir had been regained within three years, and their contracts were still up at least ten percent from where Mark's father had positioned the company before retiring for health reasons.

Undoubtedly all of that success as well as the name change were still stuck in poor Mark's throat, thus his shortening of the company name to DMT.

"Well, I'm happy to hear that, Mark. But perhaps you can get to the point? It's too cold to just stand out here, and my daughter's waiting for me to visit her after today's chemo therapy session."

Devlin at least had the grace to look a bit ashamed.

"Sorry, Henry. Please give your daughter my regards. To state it baldly, I've become involved in a project that I have reason to believe will come to involve Elizabeth Weir down the line. I need to pick your brain about all you remember of the woman. Basically anything about her and the Pegasus complex you can give me."

Henry had a lifetime of experience in board rooms and across negotiation tables which enabled him to keep his feelings from showing in his expression. Inside, however, he was crowing. No wonder Devlin had beaten around the bush and looked so constipated. Everything was coming back once more to Elizabeth Weir and that failed joint venture.

"Surely you are not asking me to commit industrial espionage, Mark?"

"No, of course not," Devlin returned quickly, with a smile no longer quite so brittle, yet one that left Henry feeling colder than from just standing out in thirty degree weather did. "My partners and I are just looking for an understanding of how she conducts her business, since Pegasus is so far from the standard corporate or research model. I'm not looking for _secrets_ , just some minor details that might give us a slight advantage in dealing with her. Insights into her personality, ideas about who amongst her people we might go to for further information if what you can offer us isn't quite enough, that type of thing. I'm sure a man like you understands the importance of a little insider information?"

Henry nodded abruptly, no longer quite so amused by this cat-and-mouse game, or the oblique reminder that he did owe Mark Devlin something for getting his own insider information. He'd do this, and would then be quit of the Devlin family, of that he'd make sure.

"As I mentioned, I'm entertaining my daughter this evening, so I'm afraid I cannot make myself available for you until some time tomorrow. Call my assistant in the morning and have her pencil you in for lunch. I think I at least deserve some Veal Saltimbocca from Harry's Harbour Place Grille in exchange for the dirt on the lovely Ms. Weir."

Devlin nodded in satisfaction, which did nothing to soften his shark smile or his dead eyes. He then stepped to the side to allow Henry to finish his journey to his car. For a moment Henry contemplated giving Elizabeth Weir a call, but Sharon would be so disappointed if he was late, and there was nobody more important than his little girl.

## DEVLIN MEDICAL TECHNOLOGIES CEO DEAD AT 46  
 _April 7, 2007: 12:29 p.m. ET_

 _BUFFALO, New York (CNN) - Henry Wallace, President and CEO found dead through apparent self-inflicted gun-shot wound. The man behind the big turn around of Devlin Industries into Devlin Medical Technologies was discovered dead by his housekeeper early this morning, victim of an apparent suicide, local police have reported. He was 46._

 _Two days earlier, his daughter Sharon had passed away from acute lymphocytic leukemia and Wallace, already devastated by his wife's death three years ago, was said to be inconsolable in his grief. No one, according to the company's interim President, Mark Devlin, was terrible surprised by the action taken by Wallace, but of course, the company and its employees will mourn the loss of such a well respected and dedicated man who felt driven to end his life so tragically._

 _Mark Devlin, the son of the company's original founder, has at this time stepped up to take the reins of his father's company, whereas before he'd been the one pushing for Henry Wallace to assume command…_

 **May 18th, 2007**  
 **Pegasus Holding Group, Employee Auditorium**  
 **Newcomb, New Mexico**

Rodney started when John closed his hand around Rodney's fingers, mashing them against the armrest of the ridiculously decadent theatre club seating. For a room that was only used a few times a year for the occasional all departmental or divisional presentation or an illicit movie night or two, it seemed a waste of both expense and square footage. He wouldn't deny it was comfortable, though.

"Ow." Rodney didn't bother keeping his voice lowered.

"You're fidgeting," John whispered, along with a mild expression of apology.

"Yes, well, forgive me if, unlike everyone else in this fucking room, I'm not used to military briefings," Rodney hissed in return, still not trying very hard to quiet his voice. "I don't see why you or I have to be here – "

"If you would prefer to take a leave of absence during the President's visit to Atlantis, Doctor McKay, I'm sure there are any number of volunteers who would take you down to Gallup," Marshall Sumner said from his position down on the stage at the podium.

His wasn't the only glare Rodney received for the interruption; Jeannie actually hit him across the back of his head from her seat behind him. John simply slipped his fingers in between Rodney's to keep hold of his hand (without the mashing this time), and then slipped a Powerbar out of his pocket and handed it over with his other hand.

Rodney took great pleasure in making sure the wrapper crackled as much as possible when he opened it; it was Sumner's fault for droning on and on about the various protocols and procedures they were going to have to follow come the end of June and Sam's visit. Certainly Rodney had many better things he could be doing right now than trying to force himself to stay awake, the chief and foremost one being lunch, which he should have been sitting down to almost an hour ago. Sumner couldn't even call him on his noise or eating right now, since Rodney had made sure that anyone even partially responsible for his safety was well aware of his susceptibility to hypoglycemia.

"Now, as I was saying, I realize that everyone has already undergone rigorous background checks pending their employment here and in their pursuit of various security clearances," Sumner finally bit out, "but these new fingerprint and blood tests are mandatory for anyone who is staying on site during the week of the President's visit. Doctor Beckett's people will try to work around your schedules as best they can to accommodate you, but we have only two weeks to submit them to Homeland as well as the Secret Service, and anyone who does not comply will be placed on an enforced vacation. Anyone who is caught cheating – "

"I'm surprised we don't have to give urine and stool samples too," Rodney groused, but this time he did lean into John and whisper. Not quite soft enough not to be overheard by Jeannie and to receive another smack against the back of his head, but at least Sumner kept droning on.

Usually while they were in meetings in the auditorium, it was filled with enough people that he and John could sit in the back and snark to their hearts content (when they weren't some of the ones coerced by Elizabeth into having to get up on stage), but this meeting had been called for mid-level department heads and up only. Sumner shouldn't have even bothered to host it in this room, although Rodney supposed it also meant there was some kind of video presentation in their future that he could work or sleep through. _After_ lunch, he damn well hoped.

Jeannie shouldn't have been here either. She was only part time in the labs now, trading off working at home to raise their daughter with Kaleb while she also floundered through her second pregnancy. But her boss (it had been mutually decided that Jeannie and Rodney could _not_ successfully work directly with one another any longer if Rodney was going to be her boss), Fiona Simpson, was down with some sort of flu, and fortunately saner heads had ruled to have someone sit in for her, instead of her exposing them to the plague she could have been carrying. In deference to how empty the theatre was (since their motivations would have been obvious – and irritating in a bad way – to Sumner), Rodney and John hadn't gone all the way to the back row as was their usual wont, so for Jeannie to have taken a seat behind them had to have been intentional, to give Rodney a hard time. Like with the hitting.

Just like when they were kids and Rodney had to ride in the front seat because otherwise he'd get carsick. Jeannie had delighted in kicking his seat back, never rhythmically enough for Rodney to understand and then ignore the pattern.

"Am I going to have to separate you two?" John snarled at the same time Rodney was flashing back to his tormented childhood.

Once again Rodney was startled, hard enough to dislodge their still conjoined hands from the arm rest between them. John was the one stuck muttering 'ow' this time and he quickly grabbed his hand back, sans Rodney's fingers.

"Sorry," Rodney said, almost sincerely. "It's just that you sounded exactly like our mom right then, and – "

"Yeah, don't do that again, okay, John?" Jeannie mumbled over their shoulders. When they both turned to look at her, Rodney could see she looked about as green as he felt.

Too many childhood traumas.

"Fine," Sumner growled from the stage. "In deference to Doctor McKay and any of the others of you who do not know how to take care of your bodies, or for those of you like _Mister_ Sheppard who have the attention span of a twelve year old, we will break here for lunch. This briefing will resume at fourteen hundred hours. That's two o'clock, Doctor McKay."

"I'll fourteen _your_ clock you sanctimonious prig – "

Anything else Rodney might have whispered not all that softly was muffled by John desperately pulling him into a kiss. Rodney let himself be so maneuvered, in part because he never turned down John's kisses, but also from knowing that their public display of affection would be pissing Sumner off far more than Rodney's rejoinder would have.

For some obscure reason, former Marine Colonel Marshall Sumner had taken an immediate dislike to both Rodney and John, even before Sumner had discovered John had been an Air Force Major before he'd come out. Officially, of course, Elizabeth's Chief of Security was _not_ homophobic. In some aspects, that was even true. Rodney was pretty sure that as a whole, Sumner could care less about peoples' sexual orientations, whether they preferred someone of the opposite sex, the same sex, or a sheep. Most likely Sumner really only cared to insure that an employee's sexual activities weren't something that could be used against Elizabeth or Pegasus.

The thing was, John's return feelings for Sumner had been immediately mutual, while it had taken Rodney a couple of days to learn what a dick the other man was. Neither of them would say why, or make any effort for reconciliation, despite Elizabeth's attempts to smooth things between them, and no one else who should have been privy to any background knowledge, such as them having served together somewhere back when both were still in the employ of Uncle Sam, was talking, no matter how much Rodney pried or cajoled.

Neither he nor John was intimidated or subordinate to Sumner, of course. Security fell under the Administrative side of the organization chart, and while Sumner was a direct report to Elizabeth, so were Rodney and John, along with a handful of others. On that hand, they were all equals. On the other hand, Rodney outranked anyone else in the company, Sumner included, since he headed up the producing side of the business (technically even John's _projects_ fell under Rodney's purview, though John, himself, did not).

"I don't suppose we want to take a vacation in a month and a half?" Rodney proposed as he and John tucked the very pregnant Jeannie in between them when they were done making Sumner's head want to explode, to make sure she wouldn't be jostled in the concerted rush by the rest of their 'peers' to lunch.

Jeannie shook her head as she comfortably snaked her arms around both Rodney and John's waists. "Elizabeth would never forgive you two for stepping out on her," she warned. "And Madison would never forgive me if you were including us in your little escape. All Maddie talks about is an upcoming opportunity to meet some new kids. She's bored with her peers, given there are only twelve of them within three years of her age group. She knows the President's physician has a daughter, although Maddie doesn't quite get that Cassidy is eight or ten years older than her and so won't want to play."

"The VIPs are going to be bringing their kids?" It was going to be bad enough with politicians and reporters hanging around and getting in the way. But families? _Kids_?

"Shit, Rodney, yeah," Jeannie laughed at him. "Atlantis is part amusement park after all, like geared for families? I haven't had a chance to find out how our Peg kids are going to be handled during the President's visit or even what the age cut-off is for these fucking ridiculous added-on security checks. If Maddie and the others are stuck inside while the government types' kids get to run wild all over Atlantis, I'm making Sumner be the one to tell Kaleb, and then making Kaleb tell it all to Maddie since she wouldn't have even known it was going to happen if he hadn't brought it up. Kaleb is making me deal with all the new-baby-will-be-here-soon shit, so I think his handling Maddie is only fair."

"Damn straight."

Rodney caught the grin on John's face before it was schooled it away. He felt a matching one trying to twitch his own lips. Normally his sister was very conscientious about not swearing, even made the rest of them contribute a dollar to a swear jar if they accidentally did so around Madison. Obviously Jeannie was feeling a little put upon of late, and was relishing her temporary freedom in having to step in for Fiona. While Kaleb got to be the one playing full-time house mom.

"I'm pretty sure I overheard Elizabeth getting a promise from Homeland Security that Atlantis will only be restricted to our own friends and family during the couple of days the President is actually on site during the preview week, despite whatever other VIPs bother to stick around. As long as our friends and family pass a basic level of vetting. Maddie is young enough to be exempt from the drug testing," John offered before slipping away from their merry threesome so Rodney could still escort Jeannie through the narrow door to the cafeteria.

From the looks of the skimpy crowd in front of them, most of the other meeting participants had headed off to the HQ building's _Executive Café_.. Rodney and John both avoided that particular place for meals when at all possible, since their relative positions high up on the company's food chain meant they'd be constantly interrupted either with requests of favors or with complaints. Such an environment did not make for palatable meals, especially today, when Sumner was pretty much guaranteed to have gone there as was his right. Elizabeth might have been a socialist down to her DNA, but that didn't mean all of her employees were, and like any interaction with more than three people in a room, there were politics and a pecking order amongst everyone at Pegasus which included semi-discriminatory dining areas.

Rodney preferred the predictable, albeit somewhat bland, menu of the school type cafeterias over the cafes that were scattered throughout their corporate campus anyway. In the cafeterias, all offerings that included citrus, nuts or milk products were neatly labeled for the protection of anyone with allergies instead of having to ask and trust your waiter or waitress – or having to memorize several different lists of ingredients. And, here they had cooks producing _recognizable_ food. Not chefs too busy trying to come up with new signature creations.

"We have to go through invasive medical procedures to be allowed in Sam's august presence while some reporter off the street can give a ticket to a family member that will get in with a simple background check?" Rodney protested as he ushered Jeannie before him, still no more comfortable with this pregnancy (now in its seventh month) than he'd been during Jeannie's first. "How in the hell is that fair?"

John shrugged. "The President made it clear that she wanted the very first ticket when Elizabeth announced the Atlantis project. Sumner and Homeland Security are obviously more concerned about the lengthy opportunity someone has had to suborn one of us. There won't even be a public release of the list of who else gets invited for some subversive to even track down," John pointed out as they took their places in line. "Even with a low-level check, I expect there will still be people who refuse to cooperate, or won't make it past the checks even if they do, and even if they are family."

Like John's dad, not that John would have invited him. Patrick Sheppard wouldn't have deigned to come either, even if he would have unbent long enough to provide even a fingerprint.

Had either still been alive, Rodney and Jeannie's own parents wouldn't have made it past the most basic screening. His mother had been a radical feminist back in the day when it had been fashionable, even if she'd never actually been involved in anything more daring than marching topless to save the baby polar bears or some damn thing. As an avowed pacifist – really more of a not-so-closeted anarchist – his father had long made a practice of denouncing both the Canadian and American governments beginning with Viet Nam right on through the first Gulf War. Both harmless, but he expected they'd been flagged nonetheless.

John's brother, on the other hand, was supposedly as well connected politically as their father (not that John ever talked about either of them), leaving Rodney to wonder if Dave Sheppard would end up on the guest list despite knowing that John wouldn't be likely to invite him either.

"It's not like we won't have free tickets to give out long after Sam's gone that won't have the added surcharge of having FBI files started to go with them," Rodney said as he waved the hand not pushing his tray. "So I'm saving myself and my friends the hassle."

"You have friends beyond people who already work here?"

Rodney chose it ignore Jeannie's oh so clever rejoinder. "Who's to say that everything's going to wo – to be turned on during preview week anyway?" Of course everything was going to _work_ , he caught himself thinking, John had been part of the design team, and he was almost as particular about triple checking other people using his designs and calculations than Rodney was.

"Not that I'm not chomping at the bit to get a chance to check it all out," Rodney added quickly lest John really think he didn't have any confidence in those renderings.

"Hey, please tell me we don't have anything equivalent to _It's a Small World_ ," Jeannie asked, suddenly turning big, frantic eyes John's direction as she gathered up their drinks while Rodney and John split her lunch choices between their two trays so she didn't have to carry anything heavier. "That was Maddie's favorite ride when we took her to Disneyland last year. She still sings the damn song in her sleep sometimes."

"You mean you do," Rodney laughed back at her.

John physically and vocally moved between Rodney and his sister as they ambled over to one of the empty tables. "Which only goes to prove that Disney's people did know what they were doing, even if it was at the expense of some brain cells for anyone over ten."

It was a habit John had developed, purportedly to save Rodney from himself, but Rodney had been fighting his sister for so many years that they were both immune to each other's evil powers.

"Nothing with music to drive you insane, however, at least not that I've heard so far," John continued as he dropped down his tray and then pulled out and adjusted Jeannie's chair for her.

"Yeah, I suppose they could just be running filler music right now, but I know Elizabeth expressly did not want to copy Disneyland or Six Flags properties except where she had to," Rodney agreed. The planned music, like the contents of the replica Library of Alexandria, was one of the few things Rodney had even peripheral involvement with on the Atlantis side of things.

"Thanks to Daniel Jackson's scripts, the environment is supposed to make you feel like you're a guest on a real alien world instead of being in an amusement park. All in front of the curtain stuff," John spoke animatedly as the three of them figured out who got what with the food. "The rides and shops – the hotel and the shows – each are being integrated as some place or thing you'd really visit, instead of just a gimmick to stand in line for. Like you're part of the movie, instead of just watching it. Take a trip though a wormhole to your new home, hop on a space ship to get to a different world, use a vertical elevator to get from home to lunch or shopping, fight off the odd alien invasion…"

"Yeah, it's more Niven's _Dream Park_ including the holograms and actors, rather than Disney or Knott's animatronics and people in anthropomorphic costumes," Rodney also clarified since Jeannie's pregnancy had precluded her from being allowed on the other side during the construction phase. She hadn't had time to sit in on any of the design meetings either. "Supposedly there will be costumes that the visitors can rent for a day a la some Ren Faires, but I don't think that setup will be in place to offer to Sam's people." "Sam?" Jennifer Keller asked slyly as she, Carson and Radek came over to join them at their table. She quickly maneuvered herself into a spot in between Rodney and Jeannie.

Rodney allowed the crowding grudgingly only because Jennifer was Jeannie's obstetrician. And because she'd otherwise be leaning over Rodney and his food to touch Jeannie's stomach at some point before lunch ended if he didn't.

"President Carter," John explained.

"You call the President of United States Sam?" Radek asked from where he sat down next to John.

"He was engaged to her back in his DoD days," Jeannie smirked before popping one of her non-sauced meatballs into her mouth with her fingers.

"You're kidding?"

Rodney couldn't decide if Jennifer was more surprised that a woman had agreed to marry him once upon a time, or that he'd had a mostly successful relationship with anyone other than John. He did know he didn't want to know the answer to that, however.

"Love, is Little Rodney being fussy again?" Carson thankfully redirected Jennifer's attention back to Jeannie before things were blown all out of proportion about that incident yet one more time.

"Wait a minute, what?" Rodney turned his glower in the Scot's direction when he actually played back what Carson had just said in his mind.

Carson gestured to Jeannie's protruding stomach and then the plate of meatballs and plain, olive oil-covered pasta. "The baby, Rodney," Carson glowered right back, his expression giving a full indication of his opinion of Rodney's intelligence.

Oh, like some sheep-loving quack could hold a candle to Rodney's –

"When he refuses to be quiet, we call him Little Rodney," Jennifer offered with entirely too much glee. "And, of course, when he's calm and placid, he's Little Kaleb."

"I thought about using Little John for one of his moods," Jeannie started to sooth John's reflexive pout. "But that kept taking me to the _Robin Hood_ place, and then to Worf's 'I'm not a Merry Man' in that _Next Gen_ episode and I just couldn't deal."

"So _have_ the two of you come up with a name for the wee one yet?" Carson asked.

Jeannie shook her head. "I think Kaleb would like a junior, but he's afraid to sound selfish and ask if I'd allow it. So instead, while I'm researching nice sounding names on Google that don't mean Satan worshiper or 'I want to be stuffed in a locker' in another language, Kaleb is compiling a list from his favorite writers and pieces of literature."

"Stuffed in a locker for sure if it's left up to him," John muttered from his end of the table.

"I'm leaning toward Jason or Justin or maybe even Jensen, but I could live with Kaleb Justin Miller Junior if I had to. I'm not just going to just roll over for Kaleb if he refuses to speak up, however, so…" she ended in a shrug.

"I like Justin," Jennifer piped up.

Rodney did too. But more, he was pleased to see once again that for all that Jeannie _had_ given up when she'd married her stupid English Lit boyfriend, she hadn't given up the strength of character that made her a McKay. And Rodney's equal.

"John is another perfectly nice J name," came the obvious, from the obvious.

"Yes it is, John, as is Jonathan. But Jonathan or John Miller just doesn't ring for me," Jeannie apologized.

"John Miller sounds like the name of a farmer or a … baseball player," Rodney pointed out helpfully. "Justin Miller, on the other hand, sounds like a physicist or a pianist, like _some_ kind of genius, so – "

"There's a Justin Miller that is currently a relief pitcher for the Florida Marlins," John practically stuck his tongue out at Rodney. "And a Justin Miller that's a cornerback for the New York Jets."

"Isn't there also a Justin Miller that plays for the Leyton Orient Footballer Club over in England?" Radek asked Carson.

"Oh, aye, he's a center back if I'm remembering correctly. That's soccer to you, love," Carson turned his grin on Jennifer. "Justin Miller is a bit of plodder, really, not all – "

"Oh, ha ha." Rodney groused.

Jeannie frowned with a little push back in her chair from the table. "Yes, well, I wouldn't mind if Little Justin was a bit of an athlete, I just wish he wasn't choosing right now to try out his soccer kicks."

"Are you all right?" Rodney asked, but had to give way because Jennifer asked it too, and she was the one who crowded Rodney out from reaching Jeannie's side.

"Just fine, but I'm guessing Little Rodney doesn't like orange juice any more than Big Rodney does."

Jeannie could only _pray_ that Little Rodney didn't have Big Rodney's allergies, Big Rodney manfully kept to himself. As Jeannie and Madison both had been given a pass on that bit of agony and hysteria, he assumed that so would the next baby, but maybe he should ask Carson about the genetics behind such allergies and if there was a way to make sure they didn't crop up.

Not while Jeannie was present, of course. She hadn't even wanted to know the sex of the baby, much less condoning any sort of _In utero_ manipulation. It was probably too late anyway.

"Radek, would you be a dear and bring Jeannie back a glass of milk," Jennifer asked as Radek was at the end of the table closest to the refrigerator. "You can use my badge – "

"Oh, for Christ sake, use my badge if you're going to get me something," Jeannie slapped hers on the table. "Between Rodney, Kaleb and John, I haven't used any of my food allotment this month. But I don't want milk, Radek, it will taste like rubbish after the acid in the orange juice. Maybe some – "

Jeannie should be grateful that he and John had bought her lunch for her today, as they'd done for the last ten days she'd come back to the labs. Ungrateful little –

"No more caffeine for you today," Carson scolded at this obvious spike of hormones.

"If you won't accept the milk, then it's going to have to be water … or maybe apple juice. Do they have any of that left?" Jennifer pivoted to look in Radek's direction from where she'd slipped from her own chair and gone down to her knees so she might better listen and feel against Jeannie's stomach.

"Stop fussing," Jeannie said, now turning red. "Everything's fine, it's not like I'm going to have him several months premature. Although if it looks like he's going to take as long as Maddie did to come out, I'm going to insist on a cesarean. And for you to tie my tubes while you're in there so this doesn't happen again!"

"Shit, TMI, Jeannie!" Rodney dropped the fork he'd been using to just spread around his food while he waited for Jennifer to make her diagnosis.

Jeannie hadn't had a difficult birth with Madison, not even having morning sickness for the most part. Unlike her current travails with Little Rodney, although the morning sickness had finally ended. But Madison had been three weeks overdue, and a long thirty-one hour labor. Just thinking about going through that agony again in a waiting room, or having to sit through the video of the final stages of birth (because _of course_ Kaleb had been in there filming it), was enough to make Rodney lose his appetite even before his sister brought her reproductive organs into the conversation.

"Oh, grow up, Rodney. It's not like you didn't have things snipped-snipped when you were in college yourself."

"Really?" John asked, and suddenly Rodney wasn't sure who he needed to be worried about here. "You never mentioned you had a vasectomy."

Jeannie immediately got a contrite expression on her face, but Rodney could still read the subtle glare in her eyes for him having kept something like this secret from John. Not that Rodney had, really. It just hadn't been something that had come up and certainly wasn't a conversation starter:

 _'Oh, by the way, I had minor surgery done to my scrotum when I was twenty, because my first experience with a woman resulted in her getting knocked up and she got an abortion without even telling me, so I wasn't ever going to take that chance again. But hey, that's okay, because I hate kids anyway.'_

Rodney offered John a weak grin. "Well, it wasn't like I could get you pregnant, so if we were going to have a kid, we'd be looking to adopt. When should I have brought it up?" he added defensively.

Not only did John not look particularly amused or appeased, he looked downright angry. "Oh, maybe after I told you that I'd become sterile back during my deployment in the Philippines?" he countered in a mild tone that meant he was actually really pissed.

Rodney felt his own anger rising. He struggled to curb both it and his tongue of secrets that he knew John wouldn't want spilled in a cafeteria, even if it was only their closest friends around within hearing distance. "No, that time was about you, John. I wasn't about to give you the opportunity to clam up because I changed the subject to something about me."

John acknowledged Rodney's point with an abrupt nod of his head, but his tight expression didn't relax. "You still could have said something the next day. It wouldn't have been – "

"Look who I brought back with me," Radek interrupted before swallowing whatever else he'd been about to add, upon taking in the uncomfortable postures and tense atmosphere now around the table.

"Hey guys, is it okay if I sit with, ah… you?"

The kid obviously wasn't quite as quick on the pick up, but then Rodney remembered he was somebody in security, not in science. As his brain was still scrambling from the minefield with John, at the moment Rodney had no clue about the kid's name.

John, of course, broke off his glare to offer a genuine smile to the guy Radek was _still_ trying to fix up with Jennifer Keller. Going on four years now.

"Hey, Aiden, sure, pull up a seat. How's it going?"

Aiden, right. Aiden Ford.

"Same old, same old, man. So everyone's here today because…?"

Yeah, seeing so many lab geeks together must have come as a surprise to one of the security goons; most of them didn't leave their labs for lunch, instead preferring to eat while they continued working, much less wander over all this way to HQ.

"Marshall Sumner's conducting the first security briefing for the senior staff vis-à-vis the President's arrival," Carson took the lifeline for what it was, with only a quick turned glare of his own Rodney's way.

Like it was Rodney's fault Jeannie couldn't keep her fucking mouth shut. He couldn't even yell at her because of the fucking pregnancy and the way everyone would jump all over him –

"I'm actually surprised you weren't there too, son."

The young man shrugged. "I think my briefing's going to be a bit different than yours. We're still going to run our normal shifts, but the President's people are going to have access to our control room whenever they deem necessary, and all of us are going to have to deal with being told how to do our jobs. I've actually never seen Mr. Sumner or Bates so uptight," Ford frowned in conclusion.

"How could you tell?" Rodney muttered sotto voice, and deftly moved his legs aside so that the kick from Jeannie missed.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Ford came out with, obviously not getting that Rodney had intentionally been rude. "They're both like the most stoic, fearless dudes, like Terminators even. Maybe they're keeping it bottle up inside when they're out in public in front of you guys, but we can tell, man. They are both really fucked up about this visit."

"How so?" Jeannie asked; Little Rodney now apparently soothed by the apple juice Radek had brought her. Or maybe by the brownie that hadn't been there earlier, the one that stingy bastard didn't bring for anyone other than Jeannie.

"I can't really explain it; they're just … twitchier somehow," Ford was saying. "When you consider that we have to give everything up to hair samples to the DHS people for security checks because of the potential threat to the President, yet _we_ can't vet any of _their_ people when we _know_ there are _credible_ threats gunning for Doctor Weir, well, that chafes, man. There are going to be members of Congress, their kids, their kid's boy or girl friends, the Congressman's girl or boy friends… all of these people coming here that we don't have any say over whether they're a security risk to us – "

"Yeah, I can see were that would make someone like Sumner twitchy," John commiserated. "Are you guys going to get any of the names up front? Or even a semi accurate account of how many we're going to be putting up with?"

Ford shrugged. "I haven't heard anything like that yet. Which is also probably making the man angry. He and Bates are acting damn suspicious of any outsiders coming in right now," he continued. "Like those folks from DMT that came in a couple of weeks ago to fix the subcu chips that had malfunctioned. There was one of the nurses, this stone-cold fox with a really nice… oh, pardon," Ford stammered suddenly with a look toward Jeannie and Jennifer. "No more attractive than you two ladies, of course," he apologized quickly and with surprising earnestness.

So damn young.

"What I mean to say is she was nice to look at, and even nicer to talk to," Ford continued. "She and I hit it off pretty well. She was even going to let me take her to lunch upstairs, but then Mister Sumner restricted their access and made me take her here instead of the Executive Café. That didn't really go over well, if you know what I mean." He abruptly looked down at his sandwich, the only clear sign that he'd again embarrassed himself in front of the two women at the table since his dark skin unfairly hid any flush he might be experiencing.

 _Do you even remember her name_? Rodney asked snidely, but only to himself. "Have you met my sister, Aiden?" he said out loud instead. "Jeannie, this is – "

"Oh, yeah, man, I coach little Maddie in soccer four days a week before I start my shift," Ford beamed. "Me and Jeannie here are old friends."

"Soccer? Madison is only five years old!" Rodney turned on his sister. "Isn't that a little young – "

"Once they become mobile, it's never too young to start them on coordination exercises and an appreciation for sunshine and exercise," Jeannie shot back with poisoned sweetness. "I seem to remember Mom mentioning _you_ started piano and _dance_ when you were four."

"You took dance, Doc?"

Entirely too many falsely innocent faces besides Ford's were looking for an answer to that not so innocuous question. God _damn_ Jeannie's fucking verbal diarrhea. "It was ballroom dancing, to help me get used to the different rhythms of the music," he snapped.

"So, ah, how many years did you study ballroom dancing?" Radek asked with his own fake casualness.

"Ten," Jeannie jumped in gleefully. "I was so disappointed when he stopped after that, because he'd been supposed to take me to my grade four prom."

"You got a prom in fourth grade?" John queried in an obvious move to take the pressure off of Rodney.

At least if John was protecting him again, they were okay. Not sterling, of course, and Rodney no doubt still had an ass-chewing coming his way. But this kid/vasectomy thing wasn't going to be something they broke up over – or even really fought about for very long, or so it seemed. They _had_ had the child conversation early on in their relationship, at least to the point of exchanging similar feelings about children underfoot (as in how uncomfortable that made them feel), even though John was pretty good with Madison. Shit, maybe they _hadn't_ had the child conversation, or at least the right one –

"Yeah, but it didn't go so good," Jeannie answered. "Jimmy Millsten had the chicken pox and pretty much ended up spreading it to the whole class, plus he kept scratching all night before any of us knew why." That memory left Jeannie grimacing. "It was pretty embarrassing."

"Guys scratching themselves usually are," Jennifer laughed with no shame.

And they said guys were the worst when it came to vulgar conversation.

"Hey, as much fun as it would be to stay here and listen to you two denigrate our species," John began as he rose to his feet, "it is almost fourteen o'clock," he finished the last with a grin directed Rodney's way, confirming that Rodney was forgiven and not being further mocked.

"Yeah, wouldn't want to upset old Stone-face Sumner by coming in late," Rodney started collecting his own tray.

"Sorry, Aiden," Radek offered an apology as he got to his feet. "But, say, Jennifer does not have any meeting to return to, so she can stay and keep you company while you finish lunch."

"Smooth, Radek," John complimented him, but only after they dropped off their trash and trays and headed out to return to the auditorium, long out of earshot of Jennifer or Aiden. "Very subtle."

"Haven't you been trying to get those two hooked up for going on two years now?" Carson asked.

"Almost four," Radek came back with proudly. "They are right on schedule and my plan is nearing fruition."

"Wow, a four year courtship," Jeannie grinned. "That's really – "

"Pathetic?"

"I was going to say romantic," Jeannie stuck her tongue out a John.

"Don't stick it out if you're not going to use it – "

"Hey!" Rodney protested. For a variety of reasons.

"I think they're good for each other, even if they only ever stay as friends," Carson offered his own opinion

"So speaks the man who's only idea of romance and a relationship is providing colored woodchips for his mice, and making sure his wee little turtle wasn't lonely by buying another one of what has to be the stupidest pet ever, and yes, I'm including fish," Rodney snapped.

"Ach, you're just mad that one of my wee ones snapped a bite out of your finger when you were taunting it, Rodney. And that she also managed to scare off your fierce bad little kitty."

"I didn't know they were even alive until Maude moved," Rodney defended himself. "And of course Zaphod jumped and ran away when it tried to amputate my finger. Cats are intelligent creatures."

"Well, Maude is a _snapping_ turtle, Rodney."

"Wait, you named your new kitten Zaphod Bebblebrox?" Jeannie interrupted. "I thought you had decided on Trillian. Because, you know, Trillian is a girl, like your kitten."

"Yeah, but she's turned out to be pretty bi-polar, too." Rodney shrugged. "Janus was just a little too pretentious, before you ask. It's not like she answers when you call, anyway – "

"I don't know, Rodney, she always comes for me," John piped up.

"Because you're the one who always feeds her."

"And how did that come to be?" John's voice edged back toward that scary mild range.

"I only forgot about it twice – "

"Four times."

"Fine, four times, but once was in the same day, so that should only count as once. And you volunteered anyway. Zaphod and I would have found our equilibrium."

"Yeah, after she'd chewed through the rest of my shoes – "

"She likes John's running shoes the best," Rodney rocked on his heels as he explained to their fascinated audience. "Not only does she chew on the laces, but she also sleeps in the left one. And only the left one. She also spends half her day grooming them. I imagine she's just working her way up to the attempt to groom John's hair, but she is only a little kitten."

Rodney had timed it perfectly, delivering the punch line right as they walked into the auditorium and Sumner's glare, forestalling John's opportunity to retaliate.

*****

  
"So, you're not worried about Sam's visit like Sumner is, are you?" John heard coming out from Rodney's closet as they both began stripping off their clothes.

John stuck his head back out of his own to see if a visual was offered with that non sequitur, but Rodney remained buried within.

"I doubt I'll ever see her beyond the initial introductions." John shrugged out of his shirt and dropped his pants. "It's not like she's my Commander-In-Chief any more. Or that meeting her would have bothered me, even if I _was_ still in the Air Force," he said loud enough to make sure he was heard. "I'm just one of thousands she'll meet this month alone. She's not the first President I'll have been introduced to anyway."

"Yeah, but there's going to be a lot of Brass with her." This time Rodney did pop his head out. "Plus the type of politicos who, well, know your father."

John could see that Rodney was really worried, not just about how stressful this might turn out to be, but also just in broaching the topic in the first place. Yeah, he shouldn't have gotten so pissed at lunch about the vasectomy thing, but it had caught him off guard as well as it having been an actual secret that Rodney had kept from him. Especially in light of the big Philippines reveal.

They didn't really talk about their pasts that much, not even about their parents other than commiserating about unhappy childhoods, and especially not after the disastrous Fourth of July they'd gone to DC to spend with John's brother their first year together, and fled after ten minutes of ranting from John's father. They didn't even consider a repeat for Christmas, then or any subsequent one despite Vicki Sheppard's pleading that her brother-in-law and his partner would be welcome. Family now was Jeannie, and friends like Elizabeth, Carson and Radek.

John _had_ told Rodney about his marriage to Nancy, and in turn had learned before today's more public reveal, that Rodney had once been engaged to President Carter back when she'd still been a captain in the Air Force and he'd been a short-term military consultant. They'd also talked about old _boyfriends_ , though just enough to get comfortable with each other's experience and preferences. Neither of them ever asked for or had offered a count of how many there had been; John was pretty sure Rodney would have had him beat, but only because the military hadn't been the most conducive place to find someone that he could have any relationship with, much less a gay one.

Because his early experience in the Philippines had been part of the events that had followed in Afghanistan, which in turn had led to John's 'voluntary' separation from the service, he'd eventually told what had happened to Rodney, lest Rodney think his leaving had only been about John no longer wanting to hide his homosexuality. Even then, those subjects had only come up because of a few involuntary reactions John had had to Rodney's touches and overtures, though he had more or less recovered from the PTSD and was better at dealing. He still hadn't told Rodney about the kind of things he'd been tasked to do in places like North Korea – just as he'd never asked any specifics about the types of projects and research Rodney had worked on before he'd grown utterly disgusted with the whole military-industrial complex.

John wasn't ashamed of what he'd undergone or had needed to do. Just as he hoped Rodney wasn't ashamed for being part of various weapons programs that might not have fallen under the approval of world opinion. At this point, John simply didn't see the point in dragging out certain … darker aspects of himself, as they were traits and circumstances he never expected to have to deal with again.

It was enough to know that they were both shaped by the ghosts and demons of their respective pasts while they continued to strive to be the kind of men they could respect in themselves and each other throughout the future.

The near part of that future that was supposed to involve them getting naked and wet, then sticky and wet again.

"Don't worry about it, Rodney. It's not like my dad or my brother would accept any invitation if the guest list has my name on it too," he offered as he came into the other closet to find that Rodney had only gotten as far as to removing his shirt and his shoes. Rodney was just standing there, shirt still in hand.

"What about your ex? You said she worked for Homeland Security?"

"As a lawyer." John came up snug behind Rodney, and reached around to take the shirt before leaning them both forward as one body to reach for the hanger to hang it up.

"No, that goes in the laundry basket," Rodney protested softly, unconsciously leaning back against John as they straightened.

"Okay," John tossed it like a basketball and made the rimshot. He then reached back around; removed Rodney's cell phone which he also lobbed into the laundry basket, then started sliding Rodney's belt free.

"While I doubt she would be on the guest list either, if Nancy shows up it might be fun," John mouthed against Rodney's neck as he popped Rodney's button fly open. "She and I still get along and, yes, she knows I'm gay," he confirmed with a quick, sharp nip against the stiff cord of Rodney's shoulder, laving and sucking there until Rodney started to relax. "You'd probably even like her if you do get a chance to meet her."

"You said she was a lawyer," Rodney muttered with all of the disdain that profession normally deserved.

"Yeah, except she's a prosecutor. And a real ball buster, yet not a shark. But do you really want to stand here talking about my ex-wife or your ex-girlfriend-who-happens-to-be-the-president?" John teased, snaking his hand through the fly of Rodney's boxers and taking hold of Rodney's firming erection. He ground his own erection against the denim seam that still covered Rodney's ass.

"So we're good?"

Despite the unaccustomed and just plain wrong timidity coming from Rodney, John purposely did not let his grip loosen as he slowly jacked Rodney's cock. "Do we need to have this discussion now?" he asked mildly.

"I don't know, John," Rodney said with a little more force, and pulled away just enough to twist around, although he didn't move back so far that John couldn't still touch – still feel – him. "Is this something else that's going to come back and bite us if we don't talk about it now?"

There was still a part of John that wanted to be angry, not just for the secret, but for Rodney bringing their earlier argument up now when they could instead be having some very nice sex. He did understand, conversely, how avoidance and compartmentalization wasn't very conducive for most people's piece of mind, and that while he was a forgive-and-forget type of guy unless the secrets or the betrayal became a constant in the relationship, most people – certainly _Rodney_ -type people – tended to brood about this type of shit unless it was discussed.

God only knew he had his own fuck-ups and flaws.

" _"I_ don't need to talk about it," he said truthfully, limiting his touching to just his fingers, and just against the smooth skin of Rodney's arms and pale stomach so as not to be accused of untowardly influencing this conversation. "Your information caught me by surprise, and it bugged me not knowing something so important about your body, but you're right in that the inability of either of us to produce sperm shouldn't ever affect our relationship. The only way we get a real baby McShep is if Carson's people perfect cloning, or if I had sex with your sister, except we both already knew that last wasn't going to be viable even before I realized you'd cut my balls _completely_ off. So, no, I don't have a problem with you having had a vasectomy. It's not like it's affected your libido, at least in my presence."

"Nor your … condition with yours," Rodney agreed and finally started in with his own touching, also keeping it non-sexual.

This was not to say that in John's case, the _entirety_ of his body wasn't one great big hot spot when it was under Rodney's control, so fingers touching an elbow or a shoulder still got John hot.

"It should be baby Shepkay, but that sounds stupid so I guess we would have to go with McShep," Rodney complained before taking the step forward to bring them back into each other's embrace and a little more directed touching.

"I wasn't keeping it a secret," the apology came across the side of John's neck, it and Rodney's breaths sending John's blood rushing. "Honestly, it was something I did sixteen years ago and it has never been a point of contention until now. The women who might have cared – including Sam – were just happy not to have to be on the pill. She was still in that military lifer phase if you were wondering. Had either of us had the time for kids, we would have adopted too."

"So what happened between you two?"

Rodney pulled back and rested his hands on John's shoulders. "I made the mistake of calling her a dumb blonde – not even in public – and she took exception because I was her fiancé. Like that should matter if her physics were just wrong from the get go. Oh, she was an exceptional tinkerer and somehow managed to get things to work that shouldn't have, but as you know, you can't bring a weapons spec to the DoD that flys in the face of all natural laws just because it worked one freaking time."

"No experiment or theory can be proven unless the results can be duplicated."

Rodney nodded.

"So you called your fiancé a dumb blonde," John returned to divesting Rodney of his clothes.

He nodded again. "And in retaliation, she threw my ring back at me and got me kicked off the project. I nearly lost my job over her when she went crying to her superiors, who then went crying to mine, and, well … I was offered a new job working with the Russians in Siberia. So I quit and walked away from all of it."

John gently slipped out from Rodney's hands and stepped on the front of Rodney's feet, right on the toe of his socks, putting his hands on Rodney's shoulder this time so Rodney could slide out of them one after the other. Rodney then stepped out of his pants and boxers from where they now rested at his ankles, accepting John's steadying hand when he wobbled a uncoordinatedly.

"Do you get mad when I call you goon or point out that hedgehogs have more brains and better hair?" Rodney still sounded less sure than made John comfortable. "Do you just manfully take my deprecations like the martyr you were trained to be?"

"No, I don't get mad, Rodney. I understand exactly what you mean when you say something like that and, no, I don't expect any different treatment just because we're together." John couldn't stop the smile that over took the serious and sensitive mien he was trying to keep on Rodney's behalf. Goon was a common enough appellation from civilians about military, and was a damn sight less pejorative than what the various military services called each other. When Rodney used it, it was definitely impersonal so, no, being called it had never bothered John. The hedgehog thing, however, was tailor made just for him. Meaning Rodney had put some thought and effort into coming up with it, and meaning that Rodney had cared enough to do so quite soon after their first meeting in fact. Rodney never bothered to learn most people's names, much less make up new ones for them.

"So shower-sex-shower? Or just sex-in-the-shower?" Rodney smiled back, reassured and now starting to tug John along after him. The final discarding of his clothes – or more likely the belief that they were indeed 'good' again – had obviously acted as the catalyst for his natural aggressiveness when it came to the two of them together.

John had a brief flash of the look of surprise on Cam Mitchell's face when John had kissed Rodney a few months ago in the Wynn. He could only imagine just how surprised Cam – or old Ziplip Zipliski – would be to find out that not only was John gay, he was _very_ gay. That he preferred to have Rodney take the lead in their sexual play, and not just in Rodney topping. Part of it was a simple acquiescence to Rodney's pushy nature, but most of it was John's physical preference. And the big damn relief it was to be able to trust someone enough so that he didn't always have to be the one in control.

Though making Rodney spiral out of control did have its own pleasures.

"Sex and shower together, then maybe a little sex and another shower afterward?" John suggested hopefully. He really doubted either of them would have much time for such indulgence over the next month, although John intended to make sure that Rodney didn't ignore _them_ as Atlantis finally got up and running and he finally got involved in the project.

"You're going to have to feed me in between if you expect me to be able to get it up twice in only a few hours." Rodney tugged him more quickly and then pushed John over against the wall next to the shower while he hit the button that turned on the multiple shower heads ranged throughout. One of the first things Rodney had done when they'd moved in together was program two more sets of preference into the control box, so that each of them had their own pre-set for water temperature, delivery setting and how many heads turned on, and one for when the two of them took one together.

Even with the pre-sets, it still took the shower a little time to reach the optimum effect, and it looked like Rodney intended on filling that time with kissing. Something John had no objections to.

John loved Rodney's kisses – adored them actually – and would have been content to continue with just this for minutes longer. Sure, too much longer would lead them to having sex just right out in the open, but John could live with that. Rodney, however, was a little more picky about tastes and odors – having never had the experience of being stuck in a helicopter for eight hours with so many soldiers that some had to hang their legs out openings just to make more room, or in catching a quickie in the ruins of some farmer's burnt out shed amidst the smell of cordite and blood so thick that you could taste it even if your partner's skin was clean.

Rodney didn't even have the regular acquaintance of a good workout: a ten mile jog; a pick-up basketball game or getting your ass handed to you by the little blind Asian doctor who had a crush on Rodney, and was also a eighth _dan_ Judo master. No, the closest Rodney came to regular exercise was their sex – and a two mile walk most evenings. Even after that, he preferred that they both shower before engaging in anything heavy.

All of that was okay however, as John loved the water almost as much as he loved the air. And a wet, slick Rodney was generally playful as well as terrific to taste.

Rodney had also programmed in their joint iPod files to begin playing in the background. Suddenly hearing a randomized _Ring of Fire_ or _Goldberg Variations_ play, no matter how softly, could still alter the mood, but tonight's first selection was Annie Lennox singing _Into the West_ ; one of the few songs they'd both had in their personal collections. An auspicious start, even if it was a little maudlin.

"Rodney?" John stuttered out against the lips pressing his in the break between ' _from across a distant shore_ ' and ' _Why do you weep_?'. Normally Rodney was all about not wasting water, even though he was avidly _anti_ -green as it gained more and more cult-cum-religious status.

"Are you in a hurry?" Rodney murmured back, slowly moving his lips from John's mouth to nibble against the rasp of John's jaw.

"Well, no, and yes," John chuffed something between a laugh and a yelp when Rodney swiped his tongue around John's ear; his entire body giving a little shake.

"John, you are nearly forty," Rodney chided although he was only slowing his assault on the space behind John's ear to accommodate his words. "Surely you can keep from going off like a twelve year old."

"Why does everyone say I'm twelve," John complained in return. "And I am as close to thirty-five as I am forty, so …"

'So' would have to wait, as Rodney wasn't going to. He slid down John's body with nary a complaint for his knees against the hard tile even though with just a little stretch, he could have grabbed the small rug John wanted at the shower's entrance to combat against coming out of it on cold winter mornings.

'Everything else would have to wait too, along with any other thought in John's head. John loved and adored Rodney's kisses because he treated them like he did anything else he'd mastered; _a job worth doing was a job worth doing well_.. Rodney treated John's cock, however, like it was a piece of art and Rodney was Michelangelo, Di Vinci or Pygmalion, tasked with giving it life.

Sometimes, though, Rodney was a Salvador Dali or Picasso, deciding instead to twist his work into something almost unrecognizable. Like this time. Four times Rodney stopped just as John was ready to shoot, grasping John's cock around the base of the shaft and squeezing. The last time he also tugged as he crawled back up John's body and started them toward the shower.

"You bastard," John couldn't help exclaiming with a harsh breath.

"Yeah, yeah, that's what you always say," Rodney answered by rote, both of them much more interested in getting into the water and back to the good stuff instead of holding a conversation. Even if some types of arguments were their standard form of foreplay.

Rodney kept manhandling John – John's cock – although he was only using his 'lever' to position John where he wanted him instead of getting back to what _John_ wanted.

"It's only what you think you want," was then murmured against the back of John's neck and once again his body flushed and his skin pebbled in reaction.

When Rodney positioned John's hands around the reinforced pipe between the wall and one of the shower heads instead of just leaning him forward against the tile, John had to agree. Rodney never used physical restraints on John. Not past the first disastrous time just after they gotten together. While John was pretty sure he could handle mild bondage from Rodney's hand at this point in their relationship, there was something even more challenging – more meaningful – for him to _voluntarily_ give up control and his ability to touch. To know that there wouldn't be bad consequences or recriminations if he changed his mind, that his only restraint was his desire to follow Rodney's lead.

Warm water fell softly against John's shoulders and the back of his head as Rodney slowly bowed him forward. The slight burn and strain as his arms were stretched their full length was quickly matched by the burn and stretch as Rodney began fingering him.

"If either of us are going to be able to get it up again tonight, I'm not going to spend my time playing or even really prepping you," Rodney warned, his own breaths beginning to come harshly in concert with John's own and in counterpoint to Breaking Benjamin's cover of _Who Wants To Live Forever_ – John's own contribution as Rodney was a classicist and preferred the Queen version.

"Yeah, do it," John encouraged. Rodney had started out with two fingers and John didn't really need much prep time, as a little pain just added to the sensation.

Rodney still waited until he was satisfied he wouldn't _hurt_.. Then, quickly donning a condom and more lube from the window shelf on the side wall, he thrust in with a steady, firm push that made John's skin flash hot and cold, and his hands and legs shake with the delight of it.

Eventually Rodney began to piston both their bodies. Between John's grip on the shower pipe that, at this point, he couldn't loosen even if he had tried, and the strength in Rodney's hips, thighs and the arms he tightened around John's chest, John soared and soared then fell into a singular moment of pain and pleasure and wonder and _Rodney_ –

As always, Rodney was there to catch him before he crashed and burned, gentling John, gentling his own thrusts while John came back into himself. Here, in this type of situation, it was easy enough for John to hasten his own recovery, to make himself into whatever Rodney needed, be it pliant or steel. This time John tightened his stance and his body, encouraging Rodney to again rev himself up until he could just let go. This time it was John's turn to hold them up.

A plaintive meow broke their afterglow and the silence that had come between Rodney's choice of one of Chopin's _Nocturnes_ – the one that John only recognized because of Val Kilmer's Doc Holliday.

"Good thing we were done," John laughed. He groaned as Rodney pulled out and helped him stand upright so John could peel his fingers from their cramped grip.

"Hey, Zaphod doesn't get to eat until I after I do," Rodney grumbled, although he was the one bending down to stick his face in the glass on his side in front of the kitten and waving.

John didn't bother to correct Rodney that it hadn't been Zaphod that would have killed the mood. He simply grabbed up their compromise bottle of shampoo, slapped a dollop on his palm and then began scrubbing Rodney's head, knowing Rodney would raise back up automatically from tormenting poor Zaphod – who didn't quite understand transparent glass yet – out of fear of getting soap in his eyes.

"Oh, that feels good," Rodney purred almost louder than his cat managed.

John smiled and spent a couple more minutes giving Rodney a scalp message, then handed Rodney the washcloth to cover his eyes, switched one of the shower heads from pulse to the handheld attachment and rinsed away the shampoo.

"I am so glad you talked me into changing all this."

The washcloth muffled Rodney's words and curtailed his gesture toward the non standard fixtures, but John got the gist of them when Rodney's head came up and his lips latched on as the washcloth dropped between them to the shower floor. While Rodney had programmed in a regulated shower for himself, he hadn't figured out the benefits of having multiple shower heads positioned at various levels, even if you weren't showering with someone else.

"My turn, now," Rodney reached past John to collect the shampoo when they ended the kiss.

For all that Rodney griped about the lack of control John had over his hair – pure jealously, John knew – Rodney absolutely loved to wash it. It was probably the gayest thing John allowed, well, despite the sex. John could so understand why women spent so much time at beauty salons if they always involved having someone else washing their hair.

John didn't bother covering his eyes from the suds, having an inch on Rodney meant he had to lean his head back anyway for Rodney's access. Plus, Rodney had absolutely exquisite control with anything he put into his hands.

"You don't think Sam's going to have me banned from Atlantis for calling her a dumb blonde, do you?" Rodney suddenly asked, his hands freezing on John's head.

"Not the most comfortable position here, even with your magic fingers. _That aren't moving right now, Rodney_!"

"Oh, sorry, close your eyes." Once more Rodney had John lean forward and bow his head so he could use the handheld to rinse the soap free.

"Close yours again," John warned as they both finished rinsing and John turned off the various sprays. Rodney stood still before John, his eye lashes fluttering as John raised his hands to cover them anyway. He then shook his head as a dog might since it was the only really good way to get rid of the excess water.

Of all their little rituals, this was one that always brought a small smile to Rodney's face, and a sense of weird accomplishment to John for offering something so simple yet apparently so significant.

"Yeah, you're fucked," John tossed Rodney one of the towels before grabbing up one for himself. "I'd come see you in prison, but I don't think they allow conjugal visits between same sex couples. We could ask the ACLU to look into that for us, though."

Fortunately Rodney's aim was pretty fucking bad, so the towel snapped against the small of John's back instead of his ass.

Was so worth it, either way.

## COURTING THE WHITE HOUSE  
 _June 14, 2007_

 _From Commander-In-Chief to First Lady?_

 _DENVER (Colorado) Addressing the countless troubles the United States faces today, 1st term Colorado Governor Peter Shanahan announced today that he would be enter the race for the White House. Surrounded by thousands of hopeful supporters, Shanahan carefully laid out the goals he has for the U.S. if he becomes President, and how they can be achieved._

" _No one is disputing that President Carter has done a tremendous job in keeping America strong and respected in the wake of tragedies at home and abroad. But we must continue to move forward instead of dwelling on what has befallen us. Dependence on foreign energy, declining educational scores, rising prices and fewer jobs are just as important as our borders and our foreign policy."_

 _While some would say that his entire speech was indeed an indictment against the President and her policies, others point out it could be interpreted as an indictment against Vice President Adrian Conrad instead of the woman who just might end up as First Lady if the romance between President Carter and Governor Shanahan is still on. A White House spokesman has said off the record that although their public appearances together were curtailed even before Shanahan's announcement, the romance between the President and the former police detective is still going strong and that the President is simply trying to allow the Colorado Governor to find his own place in the national political arena. "It isn't fair for Shanahan to be judged for her failures and accomplishments instead of his own."_

 _Insiders, however, claim this cooling off period is at the request of Vice President Conrad, and that the President is being pressured to maintain party unity and support the presumptive nominee instead of the outsider, whom she just happens to be dating. Opponents, quick to point out that with Shanahan's lack of experience he doesn't have a track record of accomplishments, also claim that this is just a transparent bid by someone who, although she had proclaimed she wasn't political or presidential when she first inherited the role, is now showing her true colors and ambitions by engineering this not so clever dodge to get around not being able to run for a third term._

" _We all know who wears the pants in that relationship," is a common cry amongst her opposition party, and …_

 **June 20th, 2007**  
 **Pegasus Holding Group, Residential Tower Two**  
 **Newcomb, New Mexico**

The last person Aiden Ford expected to find outside his door was the woman from DMT that had turned him down six weeks ago. Buffalo, New York wasn't exactly in the neighborhood, and while it was entirely conceivable that she'd been sent to service or install more subcutaneous chips for someone else, Newcomb, New Mexico wasn't on the way to or from anywhere.

"Are you going to invite me in?"

"Ah…" Aiden froze.

She suddenly pinked. "Oh, God, you don't remember me. Jeeze. I'm so sor – "

"No, hey, stop," Aiden reached out to grabbed her arm. "Please come in… Ra…ch – "

"Just Raye," she smiled suddenly and let him pull her in. "Raye Jones. So you do remember me."

Aiden nodded. "Sorry about the name thing. I – well, I'm not as bad as Doctor McKay, but …" he shrugged and gestured her further in. "So you're not going to tell me you were just in the neighborhood?" he smiled at her.

She smiled back and took his hand from where it still rested on her arm to place it against her waist. "The rest of my team is in Los Alamos," she explained as she took a step closer. "We finished early; one of the egghead leads there changed his mind on having 'invasive and ill-considered technology stuck under his skin' – "

Aiden could hear the quote in her voice, though he was more interested in the racing of her heart that he could feel.

"– and some of the others followed this Kavanagh asshole like the good little sheep they are. You would think, being a supposed bastion of cutting edge-technology, they wouldn't employ such Luddites, but …" She shook her head and closed the remaining distance between them.

"My flight doesn't leave for another couple of days and I realized I had a better way to spend some downtime than sitting around a hotel room watching bad porn," she breathed into Aiden's mouth. "Unless I was mistaken?"

Aiden captured her lips in answer.

## HOLLYWOOD A-LIST TURNS INTO AN S-LIST  
June 26, 2007

 _HOLLYWOOD (California) Although the final cut of names hasn't yet been published, the list of who isn't invited to Atlantis' preview week includes some of the biggest names of Tinseltown and the Beltway. Even with Daniel Jackson's involvement in Dr. Elizabeth Weir's newest project, few from Hollywood can apparently pass the rigors of the mandated security checks for inclusion to the guest list. So make other plans Angelina, Tom and Bruce. Don't take it personally Brad or Julia, you're joining august company that includes most of Congress, the President's Cabinet and, of course, Vice President Conrad, who is required to stay back in DC while the President travels._

 _No one has been able to confirm if Governor Shanahan will actually attend, although he, like the other three Four Corners Governors has been invited. Once again the concern of the President showing favoritism to the candidate who is not her Vice President must be considered, especially as the schism in policies between President Carter and Vice President Conrad appears to be on the rise. The rest of the Party is taking a wait and see position, at least until Iowa and the other early caucuses and primaries. Public support seems to be favoring Shanahan over Conrad, and …_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3.**

 **July 3, 2007**  
 **Pegasus Holding Group, Atlantis Resort**  
 **Newcomb, New Mexico**

"Man, I cannot believe you designed a fucking _flying_ car," Cam Mitchell was crowing as the three of them began fastening their seat harnesses, Rodney much more reluctantly than Doc Brown and Marty McFly in front of him.

The puddlejumper wasn't quite a De Lorean, of course, and it couldn't travel through time or even achieve speeds in excess of a hundred and thirty. It did have a similar aerodynamic look to the body of a De Lorean, however, and a secondary engine that allowed for very basic, short distance flight capabilities, with vertical take off and landing. It was really more of a helicopter that you could also drive once you landed rather than a flying car.

"Hey, it's the new millennium," John pointed out while running through his pre-flight checks. "We were practically _promised_ flying cars by now. But I sure as hell didn't see Detroit or Japan doing their part, so …"

"Could you imagine the commuting nightmare if we did?" Mitchell asked as John started running him through the controls. "People can't handle staying on course in two-dimensional driving, so we'd all be totally FUBARed if they tried for three. Hell, even most jet jockey's like me don't really fly in three, not like you rotor-heads," he nudged John. "Add in the typical distractions like cell phones, changing radio channels or putting on make-up –"

"Do a lot of that, Cam? What's your favorite color of eye shadow?"

"— and you'd have people crashing into one another right, left, up _and_ down," Mitchell completely ignored John's comment. "The ground would be covered with little steaming piles of metal and red goo."

Exactly what Rodney feared. It had only been a few months ago that the next generation of this vehicle had indeed refused to stay airborne during one of its first test flights. John hadn't become goo, of course, but he had given himself whiplash and had fucked up his knee enough to require surgery and crutches for a few weeks. Had his altitude been higher than a few hundred feet or had he been going even a little faster, the damage to vehicle and body would have been much worse. This version of the puddlejumper had at least fifty flights under it's belt, however, so it wasn't like he could object.

Nor could Rodney realistically object to John giving the other front seat to Mitchell (a fellow pilot), while Rodney had to fold himself into the back jump seat. Being in the back was like being in the Communications and Security Center again though, only able to listen to John's calm voice as he'd lost control. Only this time Rodney could get hurt too, yet still couldn't do anything if something went wrong.

He would endure, however; the trial was made easier because Mitchell hadn't turned out to be the ass Rodney had been expecting. Considering that Mitchell was still active military and John had been actively gay in public with regard to his relationship with Rodney during his visit, Mitchell and John both had done a remarkable job in making sure that Rodney didn't feel like a third wheel while they hung out together for the week. The only thing Rodney could really fault him for was that Mitchell did have the unfortunate tendency to act like the good old boy common to his accent.

It was hard to ignore and remain unaffected by the sheer enthusiasm his companions were now exhibiting, though.

"Control, this is _Puddle Jumper Three_ ready to take flight." Rodney heard John finally radio the CSC over their headsets.

 _Puddle Jumpers One_ and _Two_ had been the prototype and the 'testing' version. The bugs discovered during Two's testing phase led to fixes and PJ Three, which had had both successful flights and drives if not successful conversions between each state. PJ Four and Four Point One, therefore, had become the next generation prototype and _test vehicle, and PJ Five_ the one given enhancements as well as features, though it was also the one grounded at this point – being the one that had crashed. _Six_ was the newest, like Five it was both larger than the earlier models (seating three and having a storage capacity equivalent to the trunk of a normal car), plus John and Radek had managed to eliminate much of the noise problem; the headphones were only required for the pilot to communicate with local air traffic control

, while the pilot and passengers could talk normally to one another.

"Please inform Golden Eagle's fledglings that we are not violating her airspace," John continued.

" _Roger that_ , PJ Three."

It sounded like Chuck had taken the evening shift tonight in the CSC; but then he, like Rodney and a couple of others working at Pegasus, were Canadian by birth. No doubt Chuck had volunteered to forgo meeting the American President at tonight's planned dinner so someone else could.

"I'm intending to take us over to test track two, Chuck," John filed his flight plan, "and then over for a bird's eye view of the Pegasus Campus and Atlantis. If Liz has someone call to check on us, let her know we will be back in time for the dinner."

" _Roger that. Clear skies and smooth landing. Flight out_ ," Chuck signed off.

"So how does she handle?" Mitchell asked once John's attention wasn't needed elsewhere. "She's obviously not a real 'copter…"

Rodney tuned out the technical details and flight jargon that followed; he'd had it all painstakingly explained to him previous to his ever agreeing to get in. He'd known the puddlejumper maneuvered in the basic, broad strokes of any VTOL vehicle with a flight yoke that also worked as a steering wheel. He knew that it could perform a limited hover and could even autorotate to the ground should power fail, providing them a chance of landing without crashing.

Once the optimum engine speeds were reached, the puddlejumper would be marketed to a pilot more than a driver, to the day commuter who needed to travel within a five hundred to seven hundred fifty mile radius in the same morning or evening and not have to worry then about car rentals, taxis or being picked up and dropped off. Two licenses would be required to operate it; the FAA having jurisdictional control once it was airborne, just as the highway patrol or local law enforcement would treat it as a car on the road. Law enforcement, in fact, were hoping to be some of the first customers, Rodney knew, as it could give a whole new dimension to high speed chases after suspects.

Tonight, though, it was mostly a new, shiny, high-tech toy.

As the test track came into view beneath them, John began to feather the collective to decrease their altitude and ease back on the throttle and anti-torque pedals. The 'jumper couldn't go directly from copter to car, transforming like a kid's Saturday morning cartoon toy. Instead they would land, stop the back engine and John would need to get out to start the semi-automated rotor fold and retraction (future plans called for the changeover to work with just a computerized control).

Personally, Rodney's concern was that with the more automatic functions incorporated, the more chances for unrecoverable catastrophic failure there were. Or that things like weather would be able to affect and fuck it up. Too many things subject to pilot error weren't any better, of course, but that was the one thing Rodney didn't worry about with John, who flew like he'd been born with wings and feathers instead of just his crow's nest of hair. John might still make errors (even Rodney did), but John was also more than pilot enough to get himself out of them.

"Though she won't break any land speed records –"

Rodney abruptly realized the two in front were still talking about things that went faster than two hundred miles an hour,

"– she drives like a –"

" _Sheppard, do you read_?" someone's vaguely familiar voice cut across the vehicle's internal communications from the CSC.

"This is Sheppard. What's going on, Bates?"

Okay, so Rodney should have recognized him, but then he didn't think he'd ever heard Sumner's Chief Pitbull sound so … agitated. Immediate thoughts of Sam or, more likely, the Joint Chief of Staff of the Air Force having gotten pissed that someone else had been taken up for a joy ride before them flitted through Rodney's mind. Along with any number of similar scenarios, all of which ended with them being forced or shot down.

" _Where are you and who do you have with you_?"

"I'm just about to put down at the Five Mile Test Track with Rodney and my friend from Creech, Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell."

" _Thank fucking Christ! You've got to get over to Atlantis, Shep. We've got a level Beta lock-down_ ," Bates explained tersely. " _Computer systems, including communications between the CSC and Atlantis has been cut off or are going wonky. In addition to our shutdown, the Atlantis gates have entered into their own lock-down mode and won't recognize any of our codes_ or _security overrides. I've got people finding bolt cutters and they'll force their way through, but I need someone to get to Sumner and apprise him and the Secret Service of the situation before they freak. I've still got access to Farmington and Durango and am trying to get through to someone who can authorize routing through to NORAD or the White House to reach the DHS guys outside, but we're losing cell phone connections, land-lines and the satellite uplinks even as we speak_."

"Our communications system can't fail like that," Rodney protested while bracing his hand against the side door to keep from banging his head as John brought them back up and started pushing the speed to the max.

" _And because Peg's power is derived from your fuel cells and all critical areas are serviced by back-up generators, we shouldn't be experiencing intermittent black-outs and loss of connectivity to the T-3 lines, but we are, Doctor McKay_ ," Bates snarled. " _You can worry about the fucking_ how _later_."

"But that just doesn't –"

" _Look, Doc, something hinky is definitely going on. Aiden Ford is dead_."

"The hell?" John growled as he began coaxing out a speed that vehicle wasn't supposed to sustain.

" _It's worse, as he's dead from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound, and that after he killed his girlfriend_."

Bates sounded frantic and very angry; he'd been the one to recruit Ford into Atlantis if Rodney was remembering correctly. Or Ford had been one of Sumner's direct protégés, which might make things even worse from the betrayal standpoint.

" _His suicide note, if that's what it is, simply says 'Sabotage', 'sorry' and 'Semper Fi' plus something more we can't make heads or tails of, all written in his – or more likely her – fucking blood. The timing, along with the computer and communications failures has to mean we've been compromised. I don't know if it's because of the President's visit or just an attack on Peg or Doctor Weir in some sort of horrible coincidence of timing. If I thought I could now trust my fifty security employees as well as I previously trusted Ford, I still can't just throw all of them over to the Atlantis side. I've got people trapped in elevators, in labs and in their apartments because of the power outages, and because our security system is randomly refusing to recognize peoples' badges_."

"Has anyone else been hurt?" John asked.

" _We've had a couple of scientists trapped in their labs when the fire suppression system engaged and they sucked in a little too much foam before others managed to break them free. Doc Keller's pretty sure they're going to be okay, but next time it might be in a Halon area, so it's still a concern_."

Even though it was obviously going to have to be a much lower priority, Rodney wanted to ask who; he didn't like all of them but the scientists and the technicians were ultimately his people and his responsibility. Jeannie, at least, should be in Atlantis, as should Radek by this point since he'd be trying to impress both Elizabeth and Samantha Carter. Peter, though –

"You need to find Peter Grodin," Rodney forced himself into structured panic mode instead of letting his thoughts of worst cases run amuck. Creative and management freedoms aside, the main reason Rodney had come to Pegasus was to escape this kind of pressure. That didn't mean, however, that he couldn't work through it when necessary.

"The computer failures have to be a virus, and it had to be introduced on site," he said before giving Bates the crash course on firewalls and the anti-virus systems he'd made sure were in place. "Which means that you need to divert some of your men to escort Peter over to the main computer core. Whoever uploaded the virus isn't going to be happy if we figure out how stop it before they've finished."

" _Who else do we need or can handle it if Grodin isn't accessible_?" Bates asked without demanding more details. Rodney didn't like Bates, but he was damn good at his job and he trusted _Rodney_ to know his.

"Me," he replied, "but I'm going to look at things from the Atlantis side. The comm problems have to include some sort of localized jamming, otherwise we'd be cut off too. Try that woman who always hiccups when she's stressed – "

"Lindsay Novak," John supplied.

"— Chuck Campbell too," Rodney offered while wracking his brain to come up with names of the people who could work the system that Rodney implicitly trusted. Peter was one of the most competent people who worked at Pegasus, so like with Radek's people and projects, Rodney pretty much left Grodin to his own devices and didn't, therefore, really _know_ Peter's people. "Ask those three about any others they can rely on, in fact make two of them work together at all times, because although I trust those three, we also trusted Ford … "

Rodney still couldn't believe that Aiden Ford would be party to sabotage, definitely not against Elizabeth. He'd been so Marine gung ho, despite his medical deferment that had sent him home, that Rodney couldn't imagine him acting out against his Commander-In-Chief – oh, shit, not unless he'd been one of Kinsey's minions.

"Um – "

"Gene, we're two minutes out from Atlantis so we're probably going to go comm dead in seconds," John's voice cut across Rodney's thoughts. "How many people do you and Marshall have over on this side?"

" _Four is all the Secret Service wanted getting in their way, and they would only allow two of them to carry in the President's proximity; Marshall and Joseph Markham. There are supposed to be twenty Secret Service in total between Golden Eagle's detail and the other Congressional VIPs, plus the people like General O'Neill and your friend Mitchell. If they're after Golden Eagle, they might not all be trustworth_ –"

Like a switch being turned, Bates' voice was cut off mid word, but then it was obvious what Bates had been going to say, since Rodney had already voiced the same fear about their own people. Any number of the government and military visitors could be involved in yet another coup to take control of the American government, and with Ford's betrayal, so might other Pegasus people.

There were only a handful of people Rodney would absolutely trust with his life; he rather suspected that would hold the same for John. They did have one of those people with them. Radek should be somewhere here on one of the Atlantis tours and, while he wasn't as good with computers as even the Novak woman, he could at least deal with the hardware end of things. He would keep a cool head under pressure too. And, of course, there was Jeannie.

"Cam, you need to stay with the 'jumper," John said and brought them down with only a small hop considering the rate of descent and the fact that this vehicle was not one of his old military helicopters despite being treated as such. "It may be the only viable egress point. It also shouldn't be something they'd expect to be here and made plans to neutralize, if they even know it exists. I'm planning to send the President and Elizabeth your direction even if Marine One is still uncompromised."

"I haven't taken the stick in two years, Shep. And rotors aren't my thing – "

"You might have enough power left in the fuel cell to make Kirtland – at least enough to come into their radar shadow even if you have to put down on one of the reservations," John continued, completely ignoring Mitchell's protests as he powered down the engine and began unclipping himself from everything.

Rodney followed suit, although his fingers were shaking and didn't want to work.

"Kirtland's pretty much a hundred miles south-southeast of us," John added and popped his door. "Gallup is seventy, seventy-five miles due south if the President is looking to put down in the quickest location that's also big enough to hold up in or somewhere she can get an appropriate vehicle and escort. 'Course, your biggest concern is going to be the CAP flying overhead, and whether her Fledglings are also being jammed. I'd like to think the CAP isn't going to have orders to shoot anything coming _out_ of Atlantis, but you know they're going to be on edge as they get wind of our problems."

"I'll make sure I identify myself as carrying Golden Eagle just as soon as I'm back up out of the jammer's radius," Mitchell agreed with no further protest as he released his own door and levered himself out of the seat to meet John, who'd come around to assist just in case.

Before Rodney could follow Mitchell out, John leaned back in the passenger side and unlocked the glove compartment equivalent. He removed a small case that had its own security lock. Then moved back and over to set the case on the hood so that Rodney could extract himself.

"Fuck, does Sumner know about those?" Rodney had to ask as unlocking the case revealed that John had two handguns inside.

"I do have permits for them, Rodney."

"Well, yes, but I can't imagine he'd be happy to know you carry them with you on test flights." Rodney wasn't sure _he_ was happy to know that.

Mitchell was the one who gave an answer while John checked over the guns and began loading the first. "Something like this puddlejumper, no matter how much you try to keep it under wraps, is going to get noticed. Which means anyone doing the noticing might not be all hugs and puppies if they come for a look see."

Rodney wasn't sure why he _wasn't_ surprised that Mitchell knew enough _Buffy_ to make the reference. It certainly got a grin out of John despite the circumstances.

Mitchell picked up the second gun and began to check it. John offered no objections. Given the ease and speed with which both men handled the guns and the unspoken communication that seemed to be going on between them, Rodney wasn't really surprised to see that Mitchell then kept his while John shoved his own in against the small of his back and his waistband after lifting out his shirt to cover it from view. Well, it wasn't like _Rodney_ was going to volunteer to carry one of them.

"Okay, all that's out here in this section is the warehousing for equipment and props, so there won't be a reason for any of the walking tours to be in the area. There might be a security sweep, but since we can't man our own and the Secret Service have too many people to be looking out for, I'm thinking no – at least not until we get word to them or they figure out something's hinky on their own," John explained, causing Rodney to look around rather than watch the two of them split the six extra clips and begin stuffing them into pants pockets (four for John and two left with Mitchell).

Rodney hadn't really spent much time in Atlantis other than while working on certain systems that had needed his specific touch to be finished in time. He'd actually been looking forward to the fly-over on Mitchell's behalf, as he'd not yet had an opportunity to just wander around and begin to fix the various locations in his mind other than what he'd seen and memorized from the various computer and paper renderings that John had shown him.

"Everyone's first concern is going to be getting Sam and Liz out before they begin conducting building to building searches, so figure that unless it's a team coming in with our evacuees, you don't want to be seen," John continued. "Hopefully they'll just figure the jumper is a prop that isn't being used right now. If the Secret Service insists on bugging out a different direction, I'll make sure I get back here and let you know everything is cool. If you don't hear from me or any other likely candidate within an hour, bug out yourself and get airborne. There are a handful of little towns to the east, no more than fifteen minutes away and all of them have a county sheriff if not actual police, so you can get the word out to the cavalry."

The sudden, fierce grins the two of them exchanged that spoke of a deep history and friendship.

"Just don't forget you're not the Lone Ranger anymore," Mitchell said, "and the Doc here, no offense McKay, makes a lousy Tonto."

Rodney was too nervous to be insulted.

John clapped Mitchell on the shoulder. "So did you, if I remember. I had to get myself out of that jam because you were too busy trying to get laid … get intel from a local, wasn't that what you said on your report? A local _working_ girl," John said conspiratorially to Rodney. "I ended up with a broken wrist, but Cam here ended up with the clap. You can guess which took longer to go away – "

"What a good idea, Shep. Go away," Cam interrupted while flushing brick red.

On the one hand Rodney was fascinated by this conversation, as this was the first glimpse he'd gotten into some of the things that were just hinted about in John's military record. Other than knowing some of the countries to which John had been deployed, the thing in the Philippines, and the public record of his stint flying Combat Search and Rescue (which John really didn't talk about much either), most of John's military career was a mystery.

On the other hand, time was definitely of the essence, if only to make sure that if this was all just some sort of overreaction and a spot of unnecessary panic, they needed to make sure something untoward didn't happen just from the confusion.

And on the 'gripping hand', Rodney knew enough to recognize that the two of them were saying goodbye as in a potentially final goodbye, so didn't feel it proper to interrupt and tell them to wrap it up.

Besides, Rodney needed to get a handle on his own panic, which was being ratcheted tighter by the studied casualness and by just how many different ways he could imagine this all ending badly.

"Don't take any wooden nickels, Kemosabe," came Mitchell's final admonishment as John gestured to Rodney that it was time to leave.

*****

  
John understood Rodney well enough to know he'd begun panicking the moment Bates announced that Aiden was dead. His comments about the gun had been more about Rodney's fear they might need one than about John breaking Sumner's rules. He wished he could reassure Rodney that one _wasn't_ going to be necessary, or that this whole thing was a bad case of overreaction because of the President's presence. That no matter what was going on with the computer and the security systems, it all might be explainable as ill-timed gremlins. But Aiden being involved in a murder-suicide pretty much guaranteed that something bad was happening.

No matter who the ultimate target was.

In his own mind – even as he was trying to figure out where he and Rodney were in relation to the point on the tour where Elizabeth and Sumner should be right now – John was also trying to come up with a reason that didn't have Aiden betraying either Elizabeth, his country, or both. Something about the involvement of Devlin Technologies was pinging the same spidey-sense that had always served John well in his black ops days, not to mention during several other missions that had turned to shit.

John had come to Pegasus just as the partnership between Pegasus and Devlin had dissolved. He hadn't met any of the Devlin personnel, nor really knew any details of the project. The subsequent interaction between the two companies over the subcutaneous chips wasn't really in his bailiwick either, other than his refusal to be injected with the radio/transceiver biochip. The closest he'd ever come to being some sort of target for kidnapping would be as Elizabeth or Woolsey's pilot and they, like their regular security teams, _were_ all outfitted with the RFID chips.

Since Rodney didn't have one of the Devlin chips either, John's only subsequent interaction with any Devlin people had been sitting in on a couple of lunches with Aiden and Raye Jones a couple of weeks ago. John hadn't even realized her stay on site had extended into Preview Week. All Aiden had mentioned was that he'd invited his cousin and his grandparents as his guests – thank God they hadn't made it in yet; they hadn't had to witness whatever had happened. Planning on his family meeting the girlfriend didn't sound like a set-up for murder-suicide in John's book, though.

"Rodney, do you know what kind of signal the Devlin chips put out?" he asked as they reached one of the outer clusters of buildings. They were connected by skyways, walking paths, trams, and a monorail system to the main complex. Atlantis was basically a six-pointed starfish, with a central core of high-rise buildings. Low-level structures and open spaces ran down along the 'legs', and a series of mid-rises capped each 'foot' in a trefoil shamrock. Each of the six concourses had a different color scheme and were named after other lost worlds: Lemuria, Mu, Thule, Hyperborea, Shambhala and Avalon, with Atlantis being the designation for the overall complex as well as the center.

He'd landed the puddlejumper midway up Thule, which housed most of the back-stage areas; warehouses and storage areas for props, equipment and basic deliveries – the one area no one had theoretically accessed any time during the last week. At the nearest door, John pulled the badge he wore with one of his old dog tags out from under his shirt. A quick swipe across the security pad and a door leading into a promenade opened before them.

There were supposed to be two separate VIP tours going on currently. One fairly exclusive for the President and _her_ invited guests, while another one was underway for the leftover VIPs, the press, and some of the luminaries that Elizabeth still hoped to recruit to the Pegasus cause in time. When talking to Bates, neither of them had given any consideration to the Atlantis complex also being in a security lock-down mode too, and, fortunately, it didn't seem to be. Yet.

Good thing, as John was too old to be climbing up the side of a building like Batman to _maybe_ be able to break in a window.

No, he had Rodney, who could hack some sort of work around.

"You mean a signal other than the ping for base and GPS satellite triangulations?"

John frowned. "I don't know, do I? Does the chip put out multiple signals?"

"I guess. There would have to be at least two: the one that releases personal data that can only be picked up in close proximity with a reader, and one that piggy-backs onto microwave towers to handle the GPS."

Rodney spoke almost by rote, undoubtedly accepting the question as a distraction. And maybe it was, although John was working more on distracting himself so that the thought niggling in the back of his brain might bubble up, than he was actively trying to distract and allay Rodney's fears.

"If you're thinking they're somehow to blame for the glitches, I don't see how a room of fifty or even five hundred people with the chip, all grouped together, could jam or override anything except maybe one another. Nor do I expect that there are more than ten of those chips here in Atlantis right now," Rodney elaborated. "Jammers have to transmit a stronger signal on the same frequency. The frequency in which the biochips transmit, from what I understand, is removed from all the standard communications ones, otherwise they _would_ be easy to jam and, therefore, would have a serious flaw in the whole usefulness of the thing in tracking down missing people. I mean, it's why they weren't really in use before Devlin's breakthroughs; they were easy to clone and the data was open to anyone with a reader, so they weren't secure or really individualized at all."

"Yeah, okay." John wasn't sure why he was fixating on the subcues, other than because they were the catalyst for Aiden and Raye meeting.

"Hey, is there any way to get the lights to stop coming up when we reach their proximity sensor?" he then asked since lights turning on at every step was going to let anyone know that someone else was in the area. Sure, it could work to their advantage, getting a heads up on someone else's proximity, but since John was the one leading Rodney into the unknown and the others would have already had time to set things up …

Rodney frowned and moved over to the wall panel near the next junction. He unerringly found and popped open a panel that exposed a series of fuses and wire. "There would be no purpose in someone jamming the sub-cues now, right?" Rodney turned in John's direction for a moment before diving back into the electrical system and clipping or crimping something. "Sorry, I can't do a full override of the sensors, so I just turned all of the walkway lights on instead. If we go into a specific room, well…" he shrugged.

John nodded. All on was probably better than all off so sundown wouldn't leave them stumbling around in the literal dark along with their figurative uncertainty.

"I mean, it's not like Sam has one, I'm sure," Rodney continued to muse on the subcues. "And while Elizabeth does, that isn't common knowledge, nor would it matter, since I doubt any of this is aimed at kidnapping anyone. Everyone knows where Elizabeth Weir and President Carter are right now. Well, except for us," Rodney added a little pointedly although he'd lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.

"Anytime you want to take the lead, Rodney," John whispered back, presuming the last to be a comment on his sense of direction. He wasn't going to get them lost; it was just that he was better in the air than on the ground unless he really knew a place. The one – one! – time he had gotten a little turned around in Rodney's presence had been while driving in DC and that hadn't been his fault. Even the locals couldn't take the same route twice because of the road construction.

Nor was it his fault that Rodney hadn't spent enough time here to be comfortable sneaking around or to have comfort in John's familiarity with the complex. The construction had finished long before the tech and effects systems, so Rodney had had plenty of reason to wander around legitimately – if he'd been interested. He could have come by to hang out simply because John had stayed involved, and no one would have said anything, either.

It had been Elizabeth's dream and concept, but in many ways Atlantis had turned into Daniel Jackson and John's baby.

"No, no, I'm good –"

At the sound of the gunshot, John covered Rodney's mouth to stop his words and then moved in front of him. Rodney might not have understood what they'd heard, but he was definitely genius enough to figure out that John wasn't playing a game. He stayed quiet and mostly still, though he was quivering with apprehension.

John looked around for a place to stash Rodney while he checked things out; if someone nearby was shooting – without any returned shots being fired – heading toward the gunshots wasn't the direction John wanted to take Rodney. Neither did he want to leave Rodney alone and exposed, to then be found by the shooter. They shouldn't be near either of the two tours yet; John had expected at least another ten or fifteen minutes before running into anyone. At the moment they were only near some of the rooms that housed the behind the scenes necessities, such as the power substation, environmental controls and a water treatment plant – nothing remotely tour worthy.

'Stay here', John mouthed without speaking the words aloud, when he was finally certain no one was going to run down their corridor to the door to the nearest outside exit.

Rodney shook his head.

"Rodney!" John would have said more, would have argued long and loud if he had the luxury of time or the security of not chancing being overheard, instead of just hissing at the infuriating man.

Rodney simply latched on a bruising grip around John's left wrist, leaving John with the choice of either hurting Rodney to break free or abandoning the mission. Neither was an option he was willing to consider. He still shot Rodney a look that promised there would be a discussion about this later, then ignored the look of triumph that Rodney gave him back before letting go. That didn't stop him from slowly and deliberately pulling the gun from under the back of his shirt. Rodney reined in his smugness damn quick, as John had intended, as John checked the weapon one more time.

As he led Rodney forward, there was a part of John desperately wishing he could have kept both of his guns instead of leaving the one with Cam. He would have one he could give to Rodney to use to protect himself that way, not that he actually would have; Rodney had refused to learn how to handle one.

John was also vaguely concerned that he might end up needing both himself, but he supposed as he wasn't the only one armed down here, he'd be able to pick up a spare along the way if it became necessary.

Rodney had the prudence to hang back at the first corner they came upon. John edged forward. Yeah, this wasn't just a misunderstanding. A body lay on the floor ahead of them.

John cautioned Rodney to continue to stay back and, surprisingly, he did, though only after he also took a peek around John's corner. When John arrived at the body's side and knelt down, he knew with grim certainty that the man was dead even before he touched a pulse point to verify.

The body belonged to one of Elizabeth's bodyguards, Joseph Markham, who was Bates' back-up when Bates was needed elsewhere – like managing the security at Pegasus while Sumner was in Atlantis. Joe was the only one other than Marshall, according to Bates' recent update, who'd been allowed to carry a gun in the presence of the President

The fact that Joe had been sent off to check something instead of staying with his protectee could very well mean they were already too late. Especially when a quick check revealed that Joe wasn't armed any longer, nor did he have his radio transceiver.

There was no sign that Joe had been subdued, and the shots were a random grouping instead of the standard prisoner execution of one to the back of the head. It looked like he'd simply surprised the shooter, who then felt confident enough to take time to examine the body of his victim and remove any vital items before heading off to finish whatever Joe had interrupted.

John had no intention of following the shooter – not while he still had Rodney with him. There were too many places a saboteur could hide. Even with a full team behind him, John wouldn't be comfortable performing a room to room search, despite having the experience. That would be someone else's job, or something John could assist with later, even if there was a part of him that really, really didn't want to leave someone skulking around to do more damage. Or who could sneak up behind them. He needed to find Sumner and Elizabeth or the President quickly, drop Rodney off somewhere safe, and then come back to help deal with the mess here.

He signaled Rodney to come forward, but immediately got up from his crouch and started walking again so that Rodney would have little choice but to keep moving past the body if he planned to catch up to John. A glance back over his shoulder showed that Rodney was keeping up – and doing a pretty good job of keeping his panic on the inside. John promised himself that once this was all over, he would make sure he told Rodney how proud he was of Rodney's reactions – even including his damn stubborn streak.

Despite once being trained for this type of action, John was having his own silent freak-out. That training had been years ago, and he'd held both a different military and his non-military job between the spec ops work he'd been groomed for when he'd been in his twenties and now. Sounds like gunshots or the smell of death might not be forgettable, yet neither was the knowledge that this type of shit was for much younger idiots, the ones who still believed in their own immortality – or that it was glorious to come back on your own shield so long as you died for the right cause.

It was also hard to forget that back then, his training had taken place daily. Not just in shooting and sneaking, but in a PT workout that consisted of a lot more than just playing the occasional game of golf and running seven to ten miles a day.

There was also Rodney's lack of experience and his fitness to consider.

"Hope you have on your climbing shoes," John whispered and gave Rodney a quick upturn of his lips although there was nothing here for either of them to be smiling about. He quietly led Rodney past a couple of rooms that a part of him was itching to open and check, instead moving to a door set flush in the wall that you pretty much had to know existed to find.

This door didn't open to just anyone's badge, but right now – as one of the designers – John's badge granted him access to _all_ of Atlantis. He also had an override code, so even if the identification system was corrupted like was happening over in Pegasus, his alphanumeric code should continue to work. His badge was still on-line, though, and the door pushed open at his touch. He led them to a dimly lit staircase spiraling upward.

Like most multi-story buildings, most of the heating, air conditioning, the gas and electrical lines were hidden in the crawl spaces between floors, although for Atlantis the access wasn't through acoustical tiles. Instead, a series of locked access points like this one had been added as part of the structural integrity of the overall frame. There'd been concern that no matter the nature of their security procedures and the vigilance of their employees, inevitably some kid at some point was going to get away from the public areas of the complex and find his way into the back corridors. Since that would have been the stuff of nightmares and lawsuits, thus the hidden doors and completely contained access areas, with all of the necessary piping and cables fixed along railings and attached to the underpinnings of catwalks and walls. Access was a little claustrophobic, and a lot _Aliens_ in some aspects, but hopefully _their_ monsters hadn't yet made it into these hidden trails.

It would be harder to navigate in here with relation to specific rooms down below, but one of the features of having a power system that shut itself down when there wasn't anyone nearby, meant there were also sensors that tracked sound and infrared heat patterns through the entire complex, secondary controls of which should be accessible somewhere up here. Rodney was clutching the small backpack he never left the apartment without, he no doubt had either a laptop or a thinkpad on hand, which he might be able to configure into some sort of sensing device. Ideally they'd not only be able to find either one of the tour groups with it, but also a lone or misplaced person or two.

He explained his idea and once they found the nearest diagnostic port, Rodney got interested enough in the technology and the challenge to be distracted from his claustrophobic surroundings. The opportunity to pause and catch his breath had to help too, John hoped, although Rodney hadn't voiced a word of complaint – even before viewing Joe's body. Rodney immediately found and accessed the power consumption reports, and even John could follow the pattern of usage and see that two large collections of energy were showing up not too far away from them or from each other – maybe a half mile away at the most. Unfortunately, there was a third, smaller collection of heat signatures in one of the buildings that lined the Mu concourse before it opened into a covered amusement park much like in the Mall of America.

Mu wasn't part of the scheduled tour route until tomorrow.

"Okay, if you follow the deepening blue lines through the next series of junctions and four-ways, you're going to be able to come up from behind this group here at the flight simulators," John said and pointed out the quickest route on the monitor. "If you get turned around, remember that the darker blue lines lead inward to the Atlantis core and lighter into silver leads back here to Thule."

The few times Rodney _had_ managed to find the time to come over to Atlantis had been primarily to help John tweak those simulators and install a private program that, so far, only the two of them had played. So he knew Rodney could find his way out from there, even if he didn't try to head back outside to find Cam.

"My code for the access corridors is 42MER2220. It should get you in anywhere throughout the entire complex, should your badge be blocked. Sumner's got full access too, of course, but Elizabeth doesn't. So you'll probably do better to travel together, at least until you reach Cam, and I don't recommend you take the tram, any of the elevators or the glass-enclosed walkways, just in case."

"You and I are not separating, John," Rodney said with a scowl and clutched his laptop to his chest as if by hiding it, John wouldn't remember the path he'd already picked out and memorized for himself.

John frowned back. "Yes, we are. I can't be two places at once and someone needs to check out that third group in Mu while the other one of us gets to the President. Obviously you and your laptop will be needed if the President insists on both groups being evacuated together." He tried to smile despite Rodney's deepening glower. "So you can show your handy little tricorder trick to Sumner and he can then send a team for the others while you two get yourself, the President and Elizabeth out to Cam and to safety –"

"Your fucking puddlejumper only holds three people," Rodney spat out very deliberately, his tone now matching his thunderous expression. "Your war buddy might be willing to stay behind and sacrifice himself in some sort of rear guard, but if I try to fly it, I'll crash. So there won't be any need for me to 'get to safety'. I'm not going to wait with Sumner while you go off and do his job."

God, John so did not need an argument right now. "Both jobs need to be done simultaneously, Rodney. As far as getting out, you can put Sam on your lap. I'm sure you've managed that before," he snapped back in return.

"Fuck you, John." Rodney growled, then crossed his arms stubbornly. "I'm not leaving you – "

" _Yes you are_ ," John snarled in return. "I'm not going to risk the President's safety – or Atlantis'. And I'm sorry, but I don't want to risk yours either. More to the point, though, who in the hell do you think is going to be able to undo all the shit they've already done to Pegasus? They've compromised our system, maybe compromised our people, so the only person I can really trust to save us is you." No one was better at pushing his hot buttons than Rodney, not even his last CO. And just like then, this wasn't a fight John could afford to lose. No matter the eventual consequences.

Rodney just glowered and refused to move out of John's way.

"Fuck! Suppose this isn't an attack against the President or Liz, but is instead someone who thinks there is something over in Pegasus that's going to give them the fucking advantage like, say, oh I don't know, Carson's genetic research into overwriting DNA that no one is supposed to know about?" John spit out, unfairly perhaps, but maybe not. "Or maybe someone found out that half of our medical labs are working on biological and chemical counteragents to the samples of bio and chemical WMDs that we also just happen to have on hand?"

Rodney's chin darted upward. "We have safeguards – "

"All of which could be compromised right now!" John took a step forward, about as angry as he ever remembered being. "Do you really think the President or, even more so that asshole VP Conrad, is going to accept the possibility of one of those projects falling into the hands of someone who would be willing to use them once it's confirmed that we've had a full security breach? They'll have the F-35s currently flying CAP over us for the President's security fucking bomb this area back into an oil slick. _Unless there is someone who can not only convince them that we can get control back, but who can actually do it_.. And that would be you, Doctor Meredith Rodney Fucking McKay."

"So while I'm busy saving the world, you're going to be doing exactly what?" Rodney still wasn't giving an inch although John knew that Rodney was too intelligent not have come to the same conclusions John already had about the campus' vulnerability.

"Giving you the chance to do your thing. Maybe saving our little piece of the world if I can." John did his best to soften his tone and expression though he was still nearly shaking with fury – and fear. "I know it sucks, Rodney, but between the two of us, there is a clear line between which tasks we're best suited for. I'm going to be able to do my job a whole lot better if I don't have to worry about you doing yours." He put his hand on Rodney's shoulder.

Rodney shifted out from under John's touch and turned away. "Fucking asshole bastard."

The ability to compartmentalize was probably the most valuable skill the military had ever taught John Sheppard. He simply nodded.

"So long, Rodney."

Ghosting past his lover without reaching out again, John didn't turn around or even slow down despite the pained breathing and the few faltering footsteps he heard Rodney take somewhere behind him.

Sumner and his former COs would be so fucking pleased.

John followed the blue to green lines into Mu. He stayed on this level for about half a mile, then headed up two levels to take one of the enclosed skyways instead of moving down to ground level. The bogies were above ground level themselves and John preferred to come down from another utility access corridor than braving the completely open walkways that might have guards.

God, he didn't know what he was going to do about the fight with Rodney. They'd both been antagonistic because of worry about the other, but in some ways it could also be viewed as a lack of trust or faith in the other and, boy, was that a relationship killer. There was also the likelihood that he was going off to take down some bad guys and, being alone, he wasn't really in the position to leave them capable of continuing their attack, especially as they'd already shown they were willing to kill. It was one thing for Rodney to know intellectually that John had not always flown search and rescue, that he had killed people both from the air and on the ground …

No.

Not something for him to dwell on now that he was approaching the area where his targets were. John was certain these bogies weren't part of the tour that had just gotten lost. No one was supposed to be in Atlantis other than the VIP parties, not even other Pegasus people until later tonight, when the actors and techs came in early, and the rest of the employees as an audience, just before curtain rise on the opening performance of Jackson's _Atlantis Rising_.. The food for the Presidential dinner was being prepared in Pegasus and all of the decorating for it had been set up before she'd arrived, so that her people could check it out without disrupting the event. Even if someone _was_ breaking the rules by coming over early, the dinner was being held in the Moonlight Bay Café which, like the tonight's stage, was in the concourse _opposite_ this one, in Lemuria, basically five miles away. Any employees wanting to do last minute checks on the rides housed in Mu as well as the ride operators, didn't have any access to this concourse until morning. While many of the folks who worked for Elizabeth put in long or extra hours for a variety of reasons, this was the one day schedules had to be adhered to on the Atlantis side.

Regardless of who was there, John had arrived. His targets were in one of the small rehearsal rooms near the stage set aside for visiting performers who'd use the arena instead of one of the theatres built to host three Daniel Jackson extravaganzas. Nothing was scheduled _here_ until Apocolyptica opened Atlantis' summer concert series nearly a month from now.

Recalling this building's layout and the markers that had shown up on Rodney's modified heat source detector, John was pretty sure the boogies were hiding in the center room above stage left. If he came down one more floor, he should be able to access it from one of the lighting catwalks that serviced those rehearsal rooms in additional to the arena.

None of the rehearsal halls had automatic light sensors, especially not up here four stories above the stage. John was glad for the catwalk railing that reminded him he'd fall those four stories if he lost his balance. Not because he had any problem with heights, but even the security lighting didn't reach this height and it was only the faint glow coming from the room he was heading toward that prevented his area from being pitch black. As it was, he was moving basically by touch alone.

Fortunately this wasn't an active set yet. Otherwise he might find himself stumbling into Laura Cadman's pyrotechnics bundles. It was hard enough to walk carefully enough to keep the sound of his footsteps giving his approach away, without worrying about tripping over the miles of cables or tucked away replacement equipment.

The sound of another gunshot reached John before he could see into the room, though voices let him identify one of its occupants.

"Sorry, Marsh, but I really need you to wait here for a few more moments," came a voice John didn't recognize.

"Go to hell, Makepeace," John heard Marshall Sumner spit back. Okay, that probably meant Makepeace was Colonel Steven Makepeace, Aide to the Commandant of the Marine Corp and currently serving as the Secretary of State, Franklin Simmons', attaché during this visit. Between the gunshot and the hatred coloring Sumner's voice, this wasn't just a meeting between two old Marine acquaintances.

Was this still part of Kinsey's cabal … what had the press called it, _the Trust_?

John crouched down to finish moving the last few yards forward, actually lowering himself to his stomach and then inching forward to ease past the turn to the section of the catwalk that overlooked the rooms. He'd been wrong about their center placement, but having them in the first room backstage allowed John to take a position just at the right angle turn and have the scant protection of the two sets of railings. From here he could see about half of the room, including Marshall Sumner, who was being held up between two men John was pretty sure he'd also seen in the company of Simmons when the Secretary of State had arrived yesterday in advance of their President.

Neither of these two had been introduced or wore uniforms as military, but they moved, acted and were built like Marines. A former Marine himself, Sumner still looked like a running back caught up between two linebackers. It also didn't look like he was going to be able to get free without taking more damage than the wound to his thigh that John could see was bleeding steadily, but not directly as from the femoral artery.

Well, that explained the gunshot.

John couldn't see Makepeace, or tell if the Colonel was the only other one in the room beyond Sumner and his two playmates. While he felt confident that he could take out both of the men holding Sumner quickly enough, until Makepeace moved into his view – or John could confirm there wasn't also someone _else_ out of view – he still wasn't certain he could end this without getting Sumner killed.

"Hell, Marsh? I'm already there. But that's soon to end, thank God. Don't get me wrong, I actually like President Barbie. But it's obvious by what happened in New York and what's happening in the Middle East that she is _too_ worthy a Hayes successor. We need a _fighter_ in the White House, not someone who keeps _apologizing_ for America being the greatest nation on the face of our planet."

"I am not going to give you access to anything," Sumner growled. "You're going to end up killing me while you try, so you might as well just get it over with right now and save us both the time and me the sound of your fucking treason."

"Ah, but that's the beauty of our plan, Marsh. I don't need anything more from you than what I already have," Makepeace gloated, still outside of John's view.

"By now everybody knows something's gone wrong. No doubt the Secret Service is going crazy trying to find and eliminate the source of the jamming that is not only cutting them off from Barbie, but has also cut off this travesty of a socialist's paradise from the rest of the country. Of course, they're probably looking for a TRJ-89 tower or something else big enough to override that beautiful government communications suite that's sitting in those two trailers in your front parking lot."

John flashed on a variety of communication jammers; soft- and hardkill countermeasures he'd used and had been used against him in the past. The government always had the best toys, and if Makepeace's people had unlimited access, the technology behind the problems Bates had warned him of could be anything.

"Even if someone does manage to figure it out, a plausible enough scenario I have to admit given the brain trust you've amassed here, it's going to take them and your toy soldiers hours to find the _fifty-seven_ micro repeaters our people have dropped throughout Atlantis and Pegasus both. Oh, yeah, you don't know what's happening on the other side of the looking glass, do you?" Makepeace laughed. "By now the entire great experiment of a computer controlled community has proven itself to be the point of vulnerability that every fucking TV and direct-to-DVD doomsday movie viewer already knows: computers will _always_ turn on their masters."

Makepeace finally started to move toward Sumner and his men. John pulled himself up onto his elbows and took aim. The two holding Sumner were undoubtedly armed themselves, but they would have to let go of Sumner to reach for their guns, so even if John wasn't certain of a kill shot for Makepeace, there was a good chance the Colonel would miss with his first shot as Sumner was dropped. If Makepeace _was_ the only one here with a gun in hand other than John himself –

"The typical evil geniuses and god-kings also have something else on you, dear Marsh – "

John took a breath and held it, cocking the hammer of his Colt M1911.

" – they know that you should always kill the people you use to build your pyramid, your secret lair or your stupid utopia. Because someone always adds a backdoor and someone _always_ becomes a disgruntled employee over real or imagined slights."

John let his breath loose, but didn't lower his weapon. Dammit but yeah, there would have had to have been someone other than Aiden who was involved with the Trust to have brought down the Pegasus systems. As good and dedicated as the kid had been, Aiden didn't have the smarts to sabotage the computers. Hell, most of the IT people _working_ with the computers didn't have the skill to get around the firewalls and protections that Peter Grodin and Rodney had set up.

So if he waited, and if Makepeace continued gloating, John might learn who the other insider was.

"We found several disgruntled employees, actually, although for a couple all it took was an appeal to their patriotism instead of seduction, blackmail or threats against a loved one."

Fuck, was Makepeace saying there were four or five more Pegasus employees out there beyond Aiden that worked for the Trust, some voluntarily, some not? From Sumner's expression, he was thinking the same thing John was, which made it a little easier to hold off firing, despite how ragged and pained Sumner looked and the amount of blood coating his leg and puddling on the floor. Wars were won through superior intel as well as position and firepower. While John respected Sumner enough to not want to see the other man suffer, this was sounding to be all a lot bigger than just Sumner's life – or John's own – if it came right down to it.

"I'm sure you can fill in the holes of what the DHS people on the outside are thinking, when they can't make contact with President Barbie or her Secret Service. And what more will they be thinking when word from Dubai comes in and the terrorists threaten to do the same thing here as is happening there, even as we speak? How long do you think it will take Vice President Conrad to give the order to destroy Atlantis and Pegasus? Since I know you're thinking that the pussy Zoomies aren't going to be able to pull the trigger on their Commander-in-Chief – and you're probably right – I'll let you in on a little secret." Makepeace now stepped directly in front of Sumner and reached to lift Sumner's head up so they could look eye to eye. "The big boom will just be gravy. Well, gravy and a little bit of payback. Assuming anyone's left alive to feel it."

Sumner looked furious, at himself no doubt, for not being able to do anything, and at Makepeace for spouting such gleeful treason. He was also looking a bit confused, so John guessed he hadn't missed too much of Makepeace's plan being spilled before his arrival.

"Did you know that Devlin Technologies has installed forty thousand RFID chips into people throughout the world? Can you guess how many were installed in the arrogant assholes who live in Dubai?"

Makepeace paused as if he was really expecting Sumner to answer. Like they were friends and this was just a chat. Or like he was waiting for the dawning horror to overtake Sumner's expression even if he – and John – weren't quite sure what the horror was going to be.

"Most of those are the first generation ones, of course. Like your lovely Elizabeth's or that fool, Woolsey's. But twenty-seven sheiks and members of the UAE government have the second gen chips. Ooh, just like yours, along with a couple more of your people who get co-opted onto Lizzie's – sorry, Doctor Weir's – protection detail. Not to mention the fourteen hundred next gen chips out amongst the global population. It'll take years for someone to connect the dots – if they _ever_ do."

"What the fuck are you going on about?" Sumner rasped. "You never did know how to stay on target."

"You want the target? Those dots are that the Devlin RFID chip isn't just a tracker, a GPS transmitter and a data storage unit. The chip receives as well as transmits."

Makepeace looked more than smug, while John just felt ill. Could those damn chips actually control someone's actions? Make them some kind of _Manchurian Candidate_??

"While I'm sure your eggheads have figured out that they've fallen prey to a computer virus by now, they'll never figure out the delivery mode. Or how to stop your systems from being infected over and over – by you, by Aiden Ford and young Joseph Markham wasn't it? Because your second refused a chip implant? Surprising, considering how much your dog good old Sergeant Bates had been back in the day. Not having two carriers over in Pegasus might slow things down, but I imagine we'll still see the payoff."

"Which is?" Sumner wrenched his head from Makepeace's punishing grip. "You're still talking and not saying a damn thing, Makepeace. _What the fuck have you done_?"

John wanted to bless Sumner for being such a hard-ass; it was obvious that time was ticking away. Obvious, too, that Makepeace didn't know about Aiden's suicide, nor maybe even Joe's death, though John really didn't want to think about there being yet another group or individual out roaming Atlantis unaccounted for.

"Fine," Makepeace looked a little put out. "Thanks to Doctor Peterson – you do remember Damon Peterson, right?"

Makepeace paused again, in case Sumner bitched at him some more, John guessed.

"Wasn't he the hardware wizard _you_ ," Makepeace poked Sumner in the chest with the tip of his gun, "fired for violating his confidentiality agreement? I seem to recall from one of the press releases that he was also one of the architects behind your revolutionary security system. Pity that you can change your passwords and protocols all you like, but that it doesn't mean shit when someone still has access to the base code. A piece of said base code is in all of your shiny new chips, Marshall, along with a bit of additional code, that activated almost an hour ago."

 _Had it been that long_?? There wasn't enough light where he was for John to check his watch. Once upon a time he had a great time sense, even when on a mission. Now he wasn't sure if Cam was still waiting, was rescuing the President, or if he had already taken off because the deadline had passed.

"Sorry, Makepeace, but our computers can't turn into a homicidal robots no matter what your insiders might have ascribed to Rodney McKay's genius," Sumner growled something like a laugh. "You might be able to get control of our system, but we don't have lasers, death rays or flying saucers on hand either, so what's the point? You should have tried your scheme over at Area 51."

"I'm sorry, did I give you the impression that we were after your computers?" Makepeace faked surprise and sympathy. "Sorry, Marsh. Although my people will be happy to strip them of _all_ of their secrets. Nor am I sure I believe you on the flying saucer _or_ the lasers going by some of the blueprints and schematics we've already smuggled away from here. You see, this is why we need to be in charge of our country again; _because we cover for every contingency_.. Your chip isn't just a piece of a virus – well, I suppose more precisely, the computer virus isn't the _only_ virus stored within its tiny little micro heart." Makepeace shook his head again with mock sympathy; his two goons smirking broadly now.

John was really ready to shoot all three of them. But Makepeace was deep into feeling his superiority – or was somehow looking for Sumner's approval. It sounded like he was willing to tell Sumner everything. Just not without dancing around the point almost as badly as Rodney when he tried to explain things.

"As far back as 1978 we've had the technology to contain nasty things like Ricin in a little capsule; the Bulgarians Secret Police injected one into one of their traitors through the tip of an umbrella," Makepeace lectured. "It took days to break down and hours longer for old Georgi Markov to die screaming and choking on his own blood. The only drawback to that method of delivery is that it only affected one man. Even using Smallpox or Anthrax, the spread of the contagion from person to person is too slow and isn't really viable as a terror weapon except in the abstract. There is just too much time for people to protect themselves or come up with a counteragent of some form. Fortunately, one of the researchers at Devlin found a way around that."

Makepeace took a step back away from Sumner. At this point John concluded that it was just the four of them down there; the three tangos and Sumner. He wanted to kill Makepeace right now just so neither he nor Sumner had to further listen to this shit. Only John _had_ to listen. He needed to learn as much as he could about the threat so he could get a handle on how to stop it.

"When Devlin Industries broke from the partnership with Pegasus, I'm afraid that the reasons given weren't exactly accurate. The Devlin scientists _had_ managed to engineer a viable biological nanite that could replicate itself for a short period of time – and managed to keep that discovery from the Pegasus scientists. All because Mark Devlin saw that the true potential of the discovery wasn't in biological repairs. It is in biological _additions_.. Such as storing a tiny piece of _DNA_ coding that, just like a computer virus, could be triggered with a very special and very selective electrical impulse. The impulse triggers not only the virus to begin breaking down the walls of its container, but also triggers the nanites to begin replicating themselves within the bloodstream. _Your_ bloodstream, in fact, which explains all of the extra pain your feeling outside your leg."

Makepeace reached over and patted Sumner on the cheek. "You're not contagious yet, as the virus needs your blood as a catalyst to produce a toxin very much like Sarin gas. But once the nanites replicate by consuming enough of your body to reach critical mass… Which should be in," Makepeace took a quick look at his watch, "seventeen minutes. Which also means we do need to get moving here in just a few minutes more and get you to the President's personal doctor. Don't worry, you'll be incoherent by then, but we'll let her know about the terrorists and even volunteer to hunt them down. With the good Doctor Frasier being busy with you, the President will refuse her secret services' demands that she leave her lover behind, thereby insuring all the lovely Samantha Carter has a ringside seat _for when you explode like a fucking mouse in a microwave_."

 _Fuck_! John should be able to reach the Presidential party before Makepeace could drag Sumner there, but then what? Sure Rodney should have gotten Carter and Elizabeth away by now, but there would still be the rest of the VIPs and his own people in danger. If it was enough like Sarin … From what John remembered during his time in the Middle East, it took only a pinhead of pure Sarin to kill an adult. Even those not directly in the spray of Sumner's death could end up with mild exposure to the toxin, and receive permanent neurological damage. Antidotes had to be administered quickly, which wasn't going to happen during a lock-down.

"– the virus and nanites will both contaminate their immediate surroundings."

John realized Makepeace was still gloating.

"Now only those nanites that actually land on another warm body will live through the exposure, but I'm sure you can imagine the remainder of the scenario. Those people who survive the initial exposure of the virus' toxin will be looked after by people who weren't exposed and the nanites will spread through skin to skin contact, thus propagating over and over and over."

 _Jesus fuck_!

"We expect that will wipe out everyone in Atlantis within three hours, and we imagine we'll take out the Pegasus people within, well eight or nine hours since there are so many more people and we only have the one carrier in place. We might even spread beyond Elizabeth's lovely dream, since some of the Congressmen will no doubt be screaming for rescue and be whisked away by DHS. We figure it will only go as far as one more locality – Kirtland or Peterson probably – before someone figures out the transmission vector, even if they don't figure out what's being transmitted, but then, we're not looking to take out our own population. Now Dubai, on the other hand…"

Makepeace scratched his chin with the barrel of his gun and John lined up his shot again. Obviously he had to stop them here and, if he had time, go back to Joe's body and make sure he hid it away from where someone would find it. He couldn't do anything about Aiden's and, therefore, the danger to Pegasus, but at least he could stop some of it.

"We expect the toll in Dubai to be upwards to half their population, and figure we might take out portions of Riyadh, Kuwait City, Baghdad and maybe even Damascus and Tehran. There'll be a few planes that just fall out of the fucking sky too, but we don't expect a spread into Europe, Asia or back here, since it's all really very short lived in the scheme of things. The virus is only stored in the nanites and the nanites are only viable in a live body."

 _What_?

"That's why we couldn't have you sacrificing yourself quite yet, Marshall," Makepeace concluded with a pat against Sumner's face yet again before drawing his hand back quickly as if Sumner was going to bite at it.

As if Sumner had the strength left to do anything other than glare.

"Devlin's little nanites stop working within seconds of your heart stopping – "

 _Oh, thank Christ! Except_ –

"I'm curious, Marshall. If I gave you this gun, _could_ you pull the trigger on yourself?"

"I don't have to, you fucking asshole."

John supposed he didn't need any clearer marching orders than those words and the piercing gaze that rose to meet his unerringly, even if he had no idea of when Sumner had clued to his presence. Not hesitating, John still said a prayer for Marshall Sumner's – and his own – soul. The first bullet hit Sumner in the temple. The man closest to the entry point lost his grip in surprise as the spray of blood blinded him, leaving an opening for John to put a second shot through Sumner's heart as he fell, just to fucking make sure Sumner and those nanites were dead. Makepeace had some pretty damn good reflexes, as John's third shot only caught him in the side and by John's fourth shot Makepeace and the other goon still standing were returning fire.

It had been thirteen years since John had been shot himself but, like the sounds associated with it, you never forgot the feeling even as it still surprises you every single damn time. The burning and simple wrongness as something invaded his body. As tissue, muscle and nerves shredded. The punch through his right bicep sent John reeling back and had him missing completely with his fifth shot before numb fingers caused him to drop his gun. Before he could catch it in turn with his left hand, it bounced and slid off the catwalk.

 _Way to go, John_!

*****

  
Rodney must have stood there for a full five minutes, stunned into paralysis as he watched John lope away from him. He didn't cry out, couldn't even form words in his head much less let them loose; his brain caught up in the an endless loop of 'so long Rodney'. Solong, Rodney. Solongrodney –

But John was gone and while Rodney could have followed, could have maybe even gotten there before John because Rodney was the one with the goddamn people detector and surely he could find a way to stop John by overriding the security system or removing John's stupid code from the system (42MER2220). Instead, eventually, he choked on a couple of breaths and turned his attention to his laptop. Memorizing his own path and making sure that he could keep track of John's, as they both moved off to their destinations.

He hoped that John had been mistaken about the significance of that third collection of energy signatures. That John wasn't going off to get his damn fool self killed. Perhaps this whole mess was some sort of delusion and hysteria on Bates and John's part despite their finding the security man's body. Computer systems that Rodney had his fingers in didn't just decide to go wonky, however, nor did government communications systems suffer from technical glitches when they were involved in protecting the President.

Rodney could agree that John was right in that someone needed to get to the President, to Elizabeth, and inform them that there was a way out, but he was going to draw the line on leaving with them. Between himself and Peter Grodin, they'd be able to wrest the Pegasus computer systems back from whoever had sabotaged them, and it would be much easier as well as quicker to do it from the source. Or to just shut the whole damn thing off even if it meant losing years of research as well as Katie Brown's 'medicinal' pot lab. All of the biological and chemical research should already be backed-up and contained by the Beta level lock down, so nothing was going to simply escape in some sort of meltdown scenario. Right now even Carson wouldn't be able to access his medical labs, so it wasn't like anyone else would be able to either, despite John's doomsday hypothesis.

If Rodney escalated either Pegasus or Atlantis into a Level Alpha failsafe, then only he, Marshall Sumner, Elizabeth or Chief Counsel Woolsey would have access, and even then it would take two of them. And Woolsey wasn't currently on site.

Of course, the bad guys could have both Sumner and Elizabeth under their control –

John's dot was already moving through the next concourse ( _Mu_ , fuck, who had named these?) before Rodney reached the core complex, but then John obviously also knew his way around the utility corridors and Rodney wasn't sure what to make of that knowledge. John's enthusiasm for the entire Atlantis project had been pretty much on par with Elizabeth's, while, truthfully, Rodney believed they were both just wasting Elizabeth's money and a lot of people's time. He'd kept his mouth shut for once, though, happy to see John excited about something other than the damn flying car that had almost killed him.

Wouldn't it be the height of irony if John's love of roller coasters and fucking Ferris wheels ended up doing him in instead of test piloting?

Putting any further thoughts of that type from his mind, Rodney tucked his laptop back into his backpack after one last check that the mid-sized party was still at the flight simulators (had to be General O'Neill showing off, dog-fighting against Sam). He then slid down the last part of the stairs to the landing that John had directed him toward. Pretty certain that not even the Secret Service people were going to shoot him upon arrival (even if they had gotten the clue that things weren't completely kosher, though as they hadn't yet left the simulators, he wasn't going to make book on that), Rodney still made sure he wasn't running or looking _too_ frantic as he approached the people with the guns.

He'd been wrong, quite surprisingly. Yes, O'Neill was playing in the simulators, but not dog fighting against Sam. His opponent was a teenage girl that Sam and another woman were watching indulgently, as were the Secret Service people, Radek, Elizabeth, and two of Elizabeth's minders. Unfortunately, neither of the Pegasus minders left were Sumner. Also, why had he and the other one (the two who were allowed to carry weapons in Sam's presence) left Elizabeth's side to end up dead and missing, when no one here was showing any signs of distress or alarm?

"I didn't figure John would miss a chance to play fighter pilot against the President or the Air Force Joint Chief of Staff," Elizabeth began as she caught sight of Rodney. "So I assume he's – "

"We had an … incident and we're at security level Beta," Rodney interrupted her. As he surmised, either the Secret Service had been fully briefed on Pegasus' procedures or they were actually bright enough to pick up on Rodney's controlled state of panic. Seeing them move from casual alert to ready alert was actually quite startling.

General O'Neill must have heard or sensed something, himself. He slid out of the simulator without turning it off. "What's happened?"

The same fucking thing John had asked Bates. Did all Air Force personnel learn how to recognize and make a threat assessment simply from someone's tone of voice or a facial twitch?

Rodney didn't know where to begin. One of Sam's Secret Service men was stepping back and fiddling with his radio only to find out that, as predicted, their communications net was down. For a moment Rodney wondered if someone in the government party was involved too. Shouldn't there have been some kind of hew and cry before this point as, surely, the comm systems had gone down before Rodney's arrival? On the upside, that meant no one knew to pull a gun on him. Yet.

"As your guy is now finding out, radio communication is down, at least between Pegasus and Atlantis. By the look of frustration on his face, I'm assuming with your set-up outside the gates too," he directed to Sam. "So, obviously, we have a security breach. Where did they put your stupid helicopter, Sam?"   
"The upper level structure of your main parking garage on the Pegasus side," O'Neill was the one who answered, while Sam simply boggled at seeing him after all this time, Rodney supposed.

Except she should have read the security reports and known already that Rodney was Elizabeth's science and tech genius. He decided to blame O'Neill for Sam's surprise.

"It's called Marine One, by the way, as she's called Madame President." O'Neill's words, tone, and expression were all filled with disapproval – for the familiarity Rodney guessed, not that he cared. He hoped O'Neill had enough brains to realize that something more important than how Rodney spoke to the President of the United States, like keeping her alive to continue to hold that position, was going on.

"Of course it is," Rodney said, scowling over the location, not the names. Bates had said the gates between the two sides were locked down and the overrides weren't working, so unless someone still in Pegasus could fly it, the helicopter might as well be back in DC. Did she have a pilot on staff other than one of her security goons handling both jobs?   
"Okay, so it's useless at this point. Even if someone can fly it, we can't contact them to let them know we need it here. I've got people manually working on breaching the Atlantis perimeter – assuming, of course, that the DHS, FBI or whatever other three-letter agency is outside running the rest of your security, hasn't stopped them. Or shot them. Even unencumbered, it's going to take them too long." He let his frown deepen.

"Fortunately, we've got another way out of Atlantis. Unfortunately, it's only going to hold two people other than the pilot. I'd be pretty pleased if Elizabeth was one of them, but then I wasn't expecting there to be a kid – "

"Rodney, you finally made it. Where's John?"

Oh, fuck! Of course. Because Rodney wasn't only facing the possibility of losing the love of his life on this day and quite possibly the best boss he'd ever worked for (not to mention the best job of his life), but now also his sister. His _pregnant_ sister. His pregnant sister _and_ her five year old daughter, he then discovered when he turned to see Jeannie coming out of the woman's restroom with Madison still wiping her hands on her tiny little jeans.

"Peg Beta threat, DHS level Red, I guess, and just listen and follow along, you'll figure the rest out," he snapped out at her. Not that an order from him would have stopped a barrage of questions, but it looked like the sheer panic and despair he let her see, did. Jeannie had always been able to read him and, until John had come on the scene, had been the only one to care – _not_ excluding their parents.

Okay, Elizabeth might have cared too, but obviously she couldn't read him. "Rodney, I'm not sure _I'm_ following along and I've been here since you arrived," Elizabeth said with a growing frown. "Pegasus is in a Beta level lock-down?"

He was disappointed to see Elizabeth standing there so confused, but then this was the woman who also thought she could sit down and negotiate with terrorists after they'd already made _three_ different attempts on her life. Willful blindness and amazing naivety. he supposed.

"Yes, and we've already got some … casualties here and over in Pegasus," he temporized in deference to Maddie and the unknown teen's ears. "One of them is your missing man who isn't Sumner – "

"Marshall and Joseph are – "

"Are not going to be able to help us here," Rodney jumped in with a significant tilt of his chin toward Jeannie and Madison. _That_ clueless Elizabeth wasn't. She paled but nodded; message received. He'd have to remember to let her know that only Joe was dead of the two. So far.

Removing his laptop from his backpack once more, he figured if he could turn it over to Radek, then he wouldn't need to spend a half an hour going over what he'd done to make it work with the infra-red sensors. He also deftly ignored the guns suddenly pointed in his direction, but he did flip the screen around so that Sam and her goons could see that it wasn't a bomb. "By tying into Atlantis' internal lighting system, this now detects heat sources," he explained quickly. "This blob is us," he pointed to the one near the top of the screen that he'd zoomed out so he could still see the blob representing John.

There was no longer a stationary larger cluster near John. Instead three smaller energy signatures were moving away in three different directions. Rodney was pretty sure even before John had left to go check there had to have been four or five initial heat sources to make the blob as big as it had been. He refused to contemplate what there being only three tiny blobs now meant.

"Radek," he called out while starting back toward the utility corridor, slowing enough for the Czech to catch up. "John suggests that you lead the President's group out through the utility corridors into Thule. I assume you know their locations too, or can at least follow the map?" He started to hand over his laptop, but Sam snapped her fingers expectantly, from right behind him. Rodney frowned but turned and offered it to her.

One of the Secret Service guys intercepted it before Sam.

"Malcolm," she growled in soft warning and gave him a scowl which had the guy sheepishly turning it over.

Rodney was pretty sure O'Neill's sudden cough had started out as a snort of amusement.

"Once we get outside, this isn't going to help us, is it?" Sam asked.

She obviously still picked up things quickly and this glimpse of the scientist she'd once been before the military and politics had consumed her, sent a surprising pang through Rodney's heart. "Well, you could probably build an interstellar drive from some of my notes on the hard drive, assuming you still remember how to read schematics – "

"Then keep it, Rodney," Sam shoved it back at him. "You and Jack are going to need this to get to the rest of our people. Now, if only two of us can get out, the rest of you will need a place to hole up." She bit her bottom lip. "Have you got somewhere here in Atlantis that can be made secure until we can get hold of a few Marines and send them in to help?"

Rodney nodded, a bit nonplussed that Sam was the one making the strategy plans instead of her Secret Service or O'Neill.

"Janet, I'm sorry, but I think you and Cass should stay in case there are injuries."

Rodney could have kissed Sam for the look she shot the woman who might be her very own lover (he was assuming this Janet was Doctor Janet Frasier, the Chief White House Physician), while also managing to include a slight nod of her head toward where Jeannie and Madison were walking alongside Elizabeth.

"Cassidy and I will be fine," the petite doctor nodded. "I hope your second open spot will actually hold your sister _and_ her daughter?" Janet then directed Rodney's way.

Good, the voodoo priestess got it too. But then she was ex-military (maybe still military?). Air Force, just like John, Sam and O'Neill if Rodney remembered the gossip rags correctly.

"Maddie will have to ride on your lap, Sam," Rodney supplied in answer. "And, probably, you're going to have to take the jumpseat, because I don't think Jeannie's going to be able to squeeze into the back."

"Rodney, I'm not going to be able to keep up with everyone," Jeannie argued as she made her own connections, just not in the direction he'd been expecting.

The thought about what would happen if Sam's group needed to run had Rodney slowing his steps again and turning. "Okay …" Stopping, stopping was good as they'd finally arrived back where he'd exited, Father Goose, Mother Duck and all the little hatchlings, only Jeannie was her own alpha with her own duckling.

"Maddie, I need you to go with Cassidy and President Sam." Jeannie was leaning over, reaching for Madison's second hand to clutch it as she was already the first, since she was too big to kneel down and look Maddie eye to eye.

Rodney quickly looked away and started to remove the key cover and input John's code, not bothering to try and see if his own badge would still give him access.

"They're going to take you to Daddy, while Mommy stays here to help Uncle Mer."

Well, eventually Madison would make it to Kaleb. Rodney turned his head and nodded in agreement though, in case either were looking to him for reassurance. Peripherally he could see that Janet's teen daughter looked like she wanted to object to being sent away herself but, thankfully, she was old enough to take a hint. .

"You'll still be home in time to tuck me to bed?" Maddie asked earnestly, not old enough to understand the reasons for tension in the adults around her, but picking up on it well enough to have her own fears.

"I promise, baby," Jeannie tried to sweep Madison up over her stomach, nearly bursting into tears when Elizabeth's female bodyguard agent moved faster than O'Neill or Rodney could, to hold Madison up high enough that Jeannie could buss Maddie's cheek and make her laugh, before she then handing Madison over to the Secret Service guy Sam had called Malcolm. Jeannie then turned away so as not to watch Madison disappear up the stairwell Rodney had revealed, followed by Janet's daughter.

Rodney was pretty fucking close to tears himself in that moment and made a point to look away when Sam patted his shoulder. "I'm impressed, Rodney," she whispered. "Thank you and good luck." Then she and two more of her guards followed the girls.

"Radek," Rodney turned his attention to the remaining three men poised to depart after her. "You must know where the equipment warehouses are, since half of the crap in them belongs to your people." He tried to sound frustrated instead of fearful. "And I'm assuming you have an access code that will get you through the locked doors if your badge doesn't work."

"Yes and yes," came the succinct answer.

Rodney nodded sharply, so damn thankful that Doctor Radek Zelenka had not made a fuss after Elizabeth had brought Rodney on board, even though Rodney's arrival had usurped Radek's position and authority as the then current Chief of Science. Certainly many of the lesser minds and Radek's loyal minions had objected, but Radek had only acted relieved and hadn't said a damn thing about the reorganization other than welcome aboard and good riddance.

"John's friend, Colonel Mitchell, is out there amongst the warehouses with _PJ Three_ , waiting for you to get Sam to him. You've only got twenty minutes or so before he takes off to get Sam's Marines without her," Rodney blurted as he suddenly remembered and gave a quick glance to his computer screen to confirm the timing. "Assuming you do make it in time, after you've seen Sam and the girls off, you might want to see if between the six of you," referring to Sam's security detail that wouldn't be making final part of the trip either, "you can to find something in one of those warehouses that can be used to cut a hole in the security fields. Who knows, you might even meet Bates' team coming in from the other side and get the job done in half the time, so you can send one or two back here to help us."

Rodney didn't really have any suggestions for that group if Mitchell was already gone, but by that point the Secret Service would no doubt be running things anyway.

"Peter is working on lock-down from other side, yes?"

"Yes," Rodney nodded. Assuming Bates had managed to find him and that Grodin wasn't one of the people trapped somewhere, like in an elevator. Assuming that Ford had been the only inside man and that the entire outside criminal element was over here on the Atlantis side instead of stalking the Pegasus people too.

Why did his genius have to include a vivid imagination and an innate understanding of how things could go horribly wrong? Rodney bet _Elizabeth_ wasn't seeing Peter Grodin's face superimposed over the security guy's body the way Rodney saw John's.

"Then we will figure things out and leave you to play action hero," Radek responded with a hint of mockery in his matter-of-factness that did much to steady Rodney's nerves.

Rodney watched Radek and the last two guards start up, instead of looking at the screen for a reminder that his own action hero was MIA. "Elizabeth, you know Atlantis best of the rest of us, where can we stash, what, thirty people?" he asked once the others disappeared from view, hoping his own voice sounded just matter-of-fact as Radek's had.

"I'd prefer somewhere that has only two entry points, one that we can use as a choke hold if necessary and the other as an escape route," O'Neill put his two cents in.

"There are other security people on hand as well as a few miscellaneous employees with the other tour, most of them ex-military, who were tagged to help deal with the Congressional VIPs," Elizabeth pointed out while she obviously began running though her memories for the best answer to Rodney and O'Neill's requirements. "That's assuming you're willing to trust our people?" she addressed O'Neill.

"Ah, Aiden Ford is dead by his own hand, and it looks like his girlfriend was part of this," Rodney felt compelled to point out. He cringed under the weight of so many distressed faces, but it wasn't _his_ fault, dammit. Aiden was the one who turned traitor or something.

Elizabeth quickly pulled herself together with the aplomb that made her a formidable negotiator. "Yes, well, I guess that means my question is even more pertinent, General."

"My only other choice is to lock everyone up – or to shoot them… and you guys," O'Neill said, fully seriously. "Locking everyone together and leaving them behind leaves the good guys vulnerable as there likely are bad guys in amongst them – yours _or_ maybe some of my people. So I think I'd rather have everybody where I can keep track of them. All we know is that our comms were breached, probably at the same time your security was. Someone locally, however, has been duping the President's security detail into thinking everything was copasetic. At least until McKay's arrival here clued us in differently. Right, Doc?"

Rodney started to bristle at the way O'Neill addressed him, but he was fairly sure it had been done just for that reason, and he saw no reason to give O'Neill the satisfaction. "Given the equipment you brought and how it isn't supposed to be jammable in the first place, the comm work had to be done by one of yours. Someone who is currently outside the Pegasus _and_ Atlantis perimeter and who was able to redirect things until I fucked their fake signal up," he stated with complete confidence. "There is no way anyone could be carrying a more localized jammer on their person inside Atlantis or Pegasus. In order for it to be able to do the job it seems to be handling, its size would be on the order of a tractor trailer. If it was something brought in and left behind … well, your guys might not be one hundred percent in vetting, but any time one of us even left a sandwich set down for a few moments this last week, one of your guys confiscated it and set it off as if it were a bomb, so the jammer isn't on site."

O'Neill didn't look real happy at that last dig, but it wasn't as if Rodney's statement could be refuted. The bad guys obviously had had help from _both_ governmental and Pegasus employees; pretending it wasn't so wouldn't make the facts any different. Besides, three computers, five cell phones, and one sandwich _had_ been destroyed during the last five days of preparation they'd had to endure before Sam's arrival.

"So what about Sumner?" O'Neill turned next to Elizabeth.

"I have trusted Marshall Sumner with my life for over ten years, General. President Hayes trusted him as a carrier of the Nuclear Football – "

O'Neill held out his hand to ward off Elizabeth's rising anger. "I'm not accusing him, Liz. God knows he's still a Marine regardless of what his discharge papers said. I think even the Commandant just thinks of him as on a not so temporary, detached assignment. What I'm asking is where in the hell did he get to, and why isn't he back yet?"

That question obviously shook Elizabeth's composure, to go by the recognizable way she raised her chin. Rodney would have shot her a sympathetic look, but he really wanted to know the answer too.

Elizabeth then closed her eyes for a few seconds before frowning, in memory no doubt. "The Honorable Franklin Simmons requested a few minutes of his time." She shrugged. "They worked with each other in the Hayes administration when the Secretary of State was only a Pentagon liaison. Since we were obviously going to be staying at the flight simulator for a couple of hours, Marshall figured he could leave my safety to the President's detail, as well as Boyan and Dusty here," she indicated the other two in her own security detail. "I believe Marshall and Simmons' man, Colonel Makepeace, are also old friends, so I assume they're just still catching up."

"What about the other guy?" Rodney snapped his fingers. "Marxist, Markey-Mark – "

"Joseph Markam?"

Rodney nodded. "Why did _he_ leave the party?"

"Bathroom break," O'Neill answered surprisingly, instead of Elizabeth. "He said he had something off at lunch and …" O'Neill kind of shrugged, but looked more disturbed than understanding, and not about gastric distress.

Rodney was pretty sure he hadn't eaten the same thing one of the security guys would have had access to, since he'd missed the first introductory shindig with Sam and no doubt the cooks had prepared something special. At least Rodney didn't feel sick to his stomach – well, not from food.

"Well, it's _lead_ poisoning now, fatal lead poisoning," he informed them while giving a similar not-really-a-shrug in turn.

Elizabeth gave a little gasp, while the doctor and Jeannie both looked distressed and unhappy. O'Neill and the security folk mainly looked pissed off.

"And Sheppard?" O'Neill broke the moment of spontaneous, looming silence. "Despite his smart mouth and questionable judgment in … friends," with a quick, pointed show of his teeth Rodney's direction, "I seem to remember he was pretty good in doing things most Air Force pilots never had to worry about."

Rodney frowned at the reminder. "There was a third group, over in Mu," he offered, pointing to his now empty screen. He should probably recalibrate it to show the Congressional group that had been moved off the grid when Rodney was first looking for Sam yet still wanting to follow John's progress.

"I don't want to split us up until we have enough people to cover those we leave behind," was O'Neill's only acknowledgement to what the blank screen might mean. "We're going to need to go hunting, too. Janet, I don't suppose you'd loan me that gun you have in your kit?"

From the doctor's sudden embarrassed expression, it was probably a good thing that all of Sam's security had gone off with her before learning of this breech of their procedures. Rodney hadn't even noticed she was carrying a backpack (not all that dissimilar to his own), but then he supposed it made sense, as you never knew when a medical issue might arise.

"And I assume that's it for weaponry?" O'Neill then took survey of the rest of them and the nods all around.

"Only Marshall and Joseph were allowed to still carry while around such august company," Elizabeth reminded him.

"Peachy."

Not a word Rodney ever expected an Air Force General to use, especially as O'Neill was competently checking the slide and the clip of the handgun the doctor had produced.

"Okay, Liz, have you got a place in mind yet? Cause I'm thinking that we might want to be heading out of the main complex ourselves, in case the bad guys have a hook into your computer and security systems here too. There must to be cameras they can hijack to find us, not to mention closing off fire doors or generally herding us somewhere _they'd_ rather have us end up. Maybe you can hijack the cameras first, McKay?"

"I don't know where the security center for Atlantis is," Rodney had to admit. "Li —Elizabeth, do you?"

The DHS people already commandeered it," the woman identified as Dusty scowled.

O'Neill thinned his lips. "Since we haven't seen or heard anyone coming to our aid other than the Doc here, I'd make a guess that either its computer system has been compromised or the men there are."

Rodney nodded with his own frown. He managed to pick up the second large group of energy signatures that should be the VIPs; they were still all clustered together, with no strays. Until someone showed him where the local security station was, he'd be hunting blind to try and find their energy signatures.

"It's out in Avalon, near the main entry into Atlantis," the other no longer nameless red shirt then answered that question.

Not that Rodney remembered the name Elizabeth had assigned to him. Byron?

"Two miles from here," the guy added, most likely trying to impress O'Neill. "Most of the access to it is open walkways and the main greenbelt. That's a lot of open ground for someone to have to pass through; a lot of places a team of men could hide and wait and make sure none of us ever got there."

"Remind me never to let Sam take a field trip again," O'Neill muttered. "Okay, we get to the VIPs first, and figure the rest out as we go." He took the lead after a glance at Rodney's people detector.

After a few minutes more of walking and only one wrong turn, they heard voices ahead of them that should belong to the Congressional group. As there wasn't any screaming, shouting or shooting punctuating the bits of conversation, so it appeared the trouble hadn't made it this far.

"Let's hold up here," O'Neill ordered over his shoulder.

Rodney turned too, not liking that Sam's doctor and Elizabeth were now helping Jeannie waddle along, nor the pallor of Jeannie's face.

"Doc?"

Given that all but O'Neill and the two security goons had doctorates, it took Rodney a few seconds to figure out O'Neill was talking to him, but then he was distracted by how much pain Jeannie looked to be in though she wasn't making a sound of complaint.

God, all that would be needed to make this day absolutely fucking complete was for Jeannie's water to break and force Rodney to deliver the baby. Wait, they had a voodoo priestess here who could probably do that –

"Hey, McKay!" O'Neill hissed a little louder this time.

Oh, right. Rodney moved up to join O'Neill.

"It doesn't sound like we're going to have any problems over there, but I'm going to need you to go check," O'Neill started in. "We've got Press in there who will be the first to notice if someone from the President's group comes back without her in tow," he interrupted with an impatient scowl before Rodney could get his protest out.

"So unless you want to send your pregnant sister out to check, it needs to be someone who wasn't there when we split off. Meaning you. You don't even have to be nice to anyone," O'Neill continued generously. So he had a petty side; Rodney liked that in people. "But maybe you'll see someone in there that you're at least fifty percent confident that you can trust? Could you maybe get them to follow you back here? I'd like to get the lay of the land before I go in there and give the game away. And, no, Liz, your sudden presence there would alarm them even more than mine, the same with either of your men. Frankly, only Janet wandering through, sans Cassidy or Sam, would be worse than you."

Elizabeth didn't look happy to be shut down so thoroughly, but she nodded and glided back to stand on the other side from where the doctor still hovered at Jeannie's side, both of them then moving to help her ease herself down to sit and lean back against the wall.

"Oh, do not tell me we're about to have a baby in our midst," O'Neill groaned.

The doctor – Janet – shook her head. "She just needs a little rest. We pushed her pretty hard to get this far this fast. Go do your thing, Doctor McKay, she's fine."

Rodney waited for a nod from Jeannie herself, still not happy with her color or her breathing, but it wasn't like he knew how to help her other than eliminating the problem that was keeping her from getting home and getting some proper rest. He nodded in return to O'Neill and started around the corner, deciding at the last minute to hand over his laptop to the General. Jeannie could certainly handle whatever reconfiguration O'Neill might need if something happened or they got separated for longer than it should take him to find somebody he knew in this second group.

Carson, like John and Rodney, had been intending only to show up for the dinner. Rodney tried to calculate when that would be without having his watch, and thought it was still a couple hours away, no matter how long it had felt since he and John had split up. Not that Carson would be getting out of Pegasus unless Peter and Novak got things under control. Same with Jennifer Keller, who along with Carson and Chuck, had volunteered to forego most of the Presidential interactions, Jen saying that meeting the President would be too stressful. So he couldn't count on any of them.

Radek was already gone on his own assignment; Sumner was still missing, and Bates was on the wrong side of the fence, along with Peter. Ford was dead and John was –

Rodney spied both Evan Lorne and Laura Cadman in the group milling about the foyer of the Jackson envisioned replica of the Library of Alexandria. Intended to be an old fashioned fiction and reference library, plus an internet research mecca, the computers hadn't been installed yet, but the books, including some very rare tomes that Jackson had been waiting years to get his hands on now filled the three-story, seven thousand square foot room. While it might not be Alexandria, the plans were for it to eventually rival the Library of Congress. Including an unmatched research library had been Rodney's sole contribution to the Atlantis design, although he hadn't yet set foot inside to see what kind of elaborate travesty Jackson had created out of his modest proposal.

Cadman saw him first. ""Hey, Doc. Where's your better half?"

On the lost continent of Mu, Rodney thought somewhat hysterically, although he managed to scowl instead of gape or sob at her. For some reason Cadman had decided that because she had kept him from the hospital and he in turn had suggested to Elizabeth that she be hired, that made the two of them friends. Friendship apparently meant baiting one another. Rodney's relationship with John seemed to be her favorite subject, although, to her credit, she never came across as particularly homophobic and was rarely malicious, even after Rodney might have been excessively cutting in return. He didn't have time to get into anything like that right now, though. Nor did he want to explain about John right now.

"What's the next stop on the tour?" Rodney asked instead, and took a quick glance around at the faces that turned to take in their conversation. He couldn't spot anyone taking an abnormal interest. Nor did he see Sumner.

Cadman consulted the hand-out that she, like several of the other people were carrying, then grinned. "Looks like we're heading to the vertical people mover and over to Shambhala for the Wormhole X-Treme ride. In about an hour. You're coming with us, right? Or do motion rides make you puke and scream like a little girl?"

Rodney couldn't help himself. "Like _you_ would know anything about the behavior of a girl."

Of course, instead of discouraging her, her grin grew larger and she tried to catch his arm up within hers.

He twisted from her clutch. "Actually, I need to borrow you and Lorne for a moment," he said as he gestured instead for them to follow him back to where O'Neill and the others waited with Jeannie and Elizabeth. Rodney didn't know where the stupid wormhole ride was housed, but he was pretty sure it wasn't back the direction he'd come from. Nor did it look like whoever had been roped into wrangling the group was leading them Rodney's direction.

"What's up, Doc?" Lorne asked in full concern.

It was to both their credit that neither Cadman nor Lorne took the obvious route with Lorne's unintentional quote; reading people so well really must be a military thing.

Rodney just shook his head and kept walking. He wanted to get around the first corner and make sure the door to the library was closed again before saying anything. It would, no doubt, be better if O'Neill explained things at this point anyway.

Both former soldiers recognized O'Neill when they caught sight of the group waiting for them. They were also savvy enough to come to a few accurate conclusions in seeing the group included Elizabeth and Janet with O'Neill, but not Sam. Or either of the girls who should have been with their mothers, along with only two of Elizabeth's security detail. Lorne only stopped himself from saluting, while Cadman's response was to pull out a band so many long-haired women seemed to carry on their person and tie back her hair in an even more subtle recognition of pending action.

Elizabeth played the proper hostess and made the introductions, though she remained crouched down by Jeannie's side. "General O'Neill, this is Laura Cadman, our lead pyrotechnic engineer, and Evan Lorne, our special effects department manager. Laura is former Lieutenant Cadman of the United States Marines, while Evan was – "

"An Air Force Captain. We've met." O'Neill dipped his head in acknowledgment.

"General," Cadman and Lorne responded and nodded in return.

"As you might have guessed, we have a situation here," Elizabeth began.

Rodney was surprised to see O'Neill allowing Elizabeth to explain. Sure, these two were both her employees now, not the US Military's, but he'd not expected a general to acknowledge that.

"Have there been any difficulties with the Congressional VIPs or the tour in general?" Elizabeth asked next.

With a glance Cadman's direction, Lorne slowly shook his head. "Nothing beyond what you would expect from mixing the Press with professional politicians. I take it that's not what you're looking for?" he asked Elizabeth, but then looked to O'Neill – and to Rodney.

"As best we can tell, we have been infiltrated, although we are not sure of the nature of the attack, nor who the target is," O'Neill finally took over explaining. "The President is being escorted to safety, but we have a quite a few additional potential targets that need to be secured."

"The real possibility that one or more of them is involved on the wrong side is part of the problem. The prime target could well be Elizabeth instead of Carter," Rodney blurted. He could understand O'Neill's first priority would always be Sam, but Sumner was the one who was still suspiciously missing, and Aiden and Markham were the ones dead, not any of Sam's Secret Service detail.

"Rodney, I'm not – "  
"Captain Lorne," O'Neill cut across Elizabeth's noble protest. "I need you to take charge of the civilians. This is your base, so I'm expecting you to know a secure location where you can hold the fort for a few hours. Some of the … politicians are probably going to object or at least want their own people running things, including the Secretary of State and the SecNav, who might try to sic their pet Colonels and Lieutenant Commanders on you because of rank and who is active duty or not, yadda yadda yadda. So welcome back to the bosom of Mother Air Force, and take these," O'Neill started pulling off his Stars. "Tell Simmons that I – and therefore you as my sworn and legal representative – fucking outrank his and the Squid's ass in these circumstances. Once they see which way the flags are blowing, they'll help you with the rest of the menagerie."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but while Admiral Sims might acknowledge your wishes in this matter, I don't think Senators Faxon or Kendrick will," Lorne protested. "Senator Faxon basically took over once Secretary Simmons left the tour about a half an hour ago and he's …"

"An asshole who thinks he can do a better job than anyone else, including the President," O'Neill growled.

Lorne gave O'Neill something resembling a smile, which O'Neill matched despite Elizabeth's not so subtle cough. "As you say, sir."

"Okay, then, looks like I get to herd the cats," O'Neill scowled and started to handed the gun off to Lorne.

"Actually, sir, I think you had better keep that," Cadman took her own turn at disagreeing with the Air Force's Joint Chief. "Considering who's going to be looking to you for protection. And…" She started rooting around in her cargo pants' pockets and came up with a handful of long tie-wraps from one of the long pockets and what looked like a string of homemade firecrackers in the other. "And we've got these."

Not fire crackers, of course, but some black powder tubes, igniters and what actually looked like cherry bombs.

"I like the way you travel, Lieutenant, even if it is in direct violation of standing orders around the Presidential detail," O'Neill commended her and watched as she and Lorne split the bootie. "Okay, Miz … McKay –"

"Miller," both Rodney and Jeannie responded. "Doctor Miller," Rodney added.

O'Neill nodded in acknowledgment. "Doctor Miller. I think you and Liz had better come with me. Janet – "

"I should go with them," the doctor gestured Cadman and Lorne's direction. "Doctor Miller should be fine once you guys find a place to roost, and, well, if someone gets banged up during the hunt…" She finished her thoughts with a pragmatic shrug.

Yeah, she didn't really need to spell it out, especially if the others were going hunting with only a handful of fire crackers. Which just left Rodney, and Elizabeth's two security guards. Only Elizabeth spoke first.

"General?" she asked and gestured in their direction.

O'Neill waved his hand. "Probably should split the guards into one with both teams, but I'm afraid I might need the extra bodies, since neither politicians nor press are known for their discipline."

"What about me?" Rodney asked. He was two minds about it: definitely not wanting to head into danger (assuming that staying in one place wasn't going to be a fish in the barrel equivalent), but he also really wanted to find John, which meant –

"I don't suppose you have a cigarette lighter or a spare pack of matches?" Cadman shot him a weird grin.

"What, you have the supplies, but no way to use them?" Rodney scowled back at her and shook his head, but then pulled off his backpack. John was always after him to turn it into something useful for more than electronic or computer emergencies, and there was always the possibility that John had squirreled away some things as it did seem heavier than it should be.

"What kind of idiot … I was asking about where I could best be of use," he changed his muttering when Jeannie gave him a not so gentle whack on the back of his head now that she was standing and he was crouching. He pulled out two separate tins he did not remember putting into the side pockets of his backpack. One held a very basic first aid kit: a small roll of gauze and tape, a few packets of anti-bacterial crème and a small bottle of hand soap, plus … fuck … two epi-pens beyond the one that Rodney _always_ packed for himself.

"I wouldn't presume to know where you would be most useful, Doctor McKay," O'Neill said with just enough bland innocence that Rodney knew he was being insulted.

"Our first task has to be obtaining intel." Lorne's tone said it wasn't a question, but his look O'Neill's way was definitely looking for approval.

"And maybe we can confiscate some additional weaponry?" Cadman actually looked almost eager.

"I can help out with the first – "

The second tin, with its matches, needle and thread, a fishhook and other little bits and pieces fell from Rodney's suddenly shaking hands at the sound of John's voice. "Christ on a crutch, you fucking bastard!" he started, then dropped the entire backpack, including his laptop when he turned around and actually saw John.

"I thought I was a fucking _asshole_ bastard."

Rodney ignored Elizabeth's breathless calling of John's name and Jeannie's snap of his own. He ignored John's vague response to the women, ignored that he was still absolutely and incandescently furious with John, and ignored that he had an audience that included the Joint Chief of Staff of the Air Force, one Brigadier General Jack O'Neill, who might be a big proponent of Don't Ask Don't Tell even if John wasn't any longer a part of the Air Force. It being rescinded hadn't changed attitudes, only what people like O'Neill could legally do about it. Rodney ignored it all because the only thing his brain could acknowledge was the wary and weary hopefulness in John's voice and expression when John looked his direction.

Deftly outmaneuvering around Elizabeth (Jeannie had no hope of moving fast enough), Rodney threw his arms around John in a public display of his feelings he had _never_ before indulged in, his eyes hot and his body shaking, and maybe so were John's –

John's shirt was wet on his right side. Sweat maybe, but the pattern was uneven and he shouldn't be this damp unless he'd run the entire time and distance. The smell wasn't right either. So maybe it hadn't been forgiveness and apology in his gaze so much as it had been vulnerability and pain, not that Rodney had a moment to think. Because John was twisting away from Rodney's hold and everyone else's, and Rodney's arm when he abruptly dropped it, came back streaked in blood.

"John?"

Struck with paralysis again, it was Lorne who bent down to rescue the now bent tin that held the first aid supplies, while that Janet doctor person eased herself in between John and Rodney, her own backpack opened.

"Just take it easy and let me take a look." Her voice was no louder than Jeannie's repressed sob and Rodney couldn't make out John's response or if he'd actually responded at all, even when Cadman moved him so she could also get in there to help.

"General," John raised his voice and his chin in half a nod of acknowledgement toward O'Neill. "It's a through-and-through," he then spoke softly, eyes turned to Rodney as Sam's doctor nudged John to lean back against the corridor wall. Cadman pierced the shoulder seam of his shirt with a small penknife and cut away his sleeve.

"Just didn't have much in the way of a bandage."

Even under the corridor lights it was hard to tell the dark material of John's shirt was soaked in blood, other than it gleamed wetly and left a small puddle beneath it after Cadman dropped the material to the floor. It was only as the two women were then easing John down to sit down next to it, as Elizabeth and Jeannie both grabbed onto Rodney's arms, their breaths hitching in his ears worse than John's, that Rodney remembered to breathe in turn.

"Major, you okay?"

Even Rodney could hear the unstated _report, soldier_ underlying O'Neill's question.

Rodney guessed the liquid the doctor had poured onto a folded cloth was peroxide, as John only closed his eyes and didn't even hiss as she tried to clean away the blood surrounding the _fucking hole in John's body_.. The closer she got to the entry point, the tighter John's body seemed to draw, however. And the sicker Rodney began to feel, although he had enough presence of mind to not want to lose his stomach here or be any part of the center of attention, when John was the one who'd actually been hurt.

At least his ego was good for something, as was the pain from the sets of hands still clutching at him.

"Sumner's dead," John began speaking without opening his eyes. His flinch was obvious, only no one was touching him at the moment, as the doctor was back to pulling out pads and gauze, and an ampoule that Rodney would bet was morphine.

"This all seems to be another plot by the Trust to launch their shadow government and I think Simmons is in on it – I _know_ his aide is," John continued. "He was the one in charge of the men who held Sumner."

"Colonel Makepeace?" O'Neill growled, losing that slightly distracted and befuddled air that had him looking more like someone's uncle than a general. Now, suddenly, it was like _all_ of O'Neill's masks had been stripped away, leaving only a core of fire, anger and purpose. For the first time, Rodney could see why Sam had looked up to and followed this man; why she'd pushed and prodded and promoted him until he was, undoubtedly, her top advisor and the man she trusted more than any other.

John nodded. "It was supposed to be some sort of bio-chemical attack and I'm pretty sure that's been eliminated, but … Rodney," John abruptly opened his eyes and found Rodney's unerringly, although Rodney had yet to speak (move) since John had pulled away from him (since he'd _hurt_ John). "You got the President and Eliz …"

Right, Elizabeth was standing right next to him, as was Jeannie. Rodney couldn't decide if John's sudden wounded expression was because of disappointment or pain. The idea of either cut Rodney to the quick.

"I need you to lean forward," the doctor distracted them and tugged John into leaning against her so Cadman could slap a huge pad of white against the back of John's shoulder.

Somehow, losing sight of John's haunted gaze didn't make Rodney hurt any less.

"It's under control, Major. We've got a group escorting the President and two young girls, including Madison Miller, to the evac you set up for us, and Liz's security detail was just taking her and Doctor Miller to the secure point with the rest of the VIPs," O'Neill lied more matter-of-factly than soothingly, even as he sent a pointed look to the men in question and then the two women. "Once Janet gets you fixed up, you and I will join them to ride herd and – "

Elizabeth made a broken sound of protest. Or maybe it was just John's, although Elizabeth was resisting being drawn away. Until Jeannie took Elizabeth's hand in hers and maybe leaned a little more than necessary into Elizabeth and the security guy's hold.

Fuck. Rodney hoped she was simply milking it – for all the right reasons, of course. He returned the weak smile she gave him and tried to hold on to the relief that she and Elizabeth were being taken off to safety.

"If the bio attack didn't work, Makepeace plans to come in guns blazing," John put paid to that nice illusion. "I got back here first, because I knew all the shortcuts, but he's got to be on his way with at least one other man. We've got to either meet them before they get to the civilians, or we've got to get the civilians somewhere Makepeace can't get access to them. Now, all I saw were handguns, but he sounded too confident not to have more weapons or more men he can access." His words were punctuated with occasional gasps as the doctor rolled and then tightened the gauze around his shoulder, but his grip was firm enough to stop her when she then approached with the morphine.

"Major," she scolded.

John didn't budge. "Not until the threat is removed."

Rodney had to hand it to the doctor, he could see that she wanted to appeal to O'Neill to overrule John – hell, _Rodney_ wanted O'Neill to overrule John. But a drugged John would be a definite liability, while a hurting one was only a potential liability. Plus John looked like he still had information he needed to convey to them.

"Do you know how to use this on yourself?" the doctor asked mildly before slipping her hand from his and tucking the ampoule into one of John's own pockets when he nodded and let his hand drift from her wrist back to his lap. She didn't look quite so acquiescing when she next pulled out a bottle of water and a blister pack from her kit and held them out.

And John didn't look quite so stoic when he nodded this time and accepted them. "Where have you stowed the VIPs?" he asked O'Neill after he swallowed the pain reliever and finished the entire bottle.

"Actually, we haven't quite gotten that far," Lorne abruptly reminded Rodney that he was still there, standing down a bit from O'Neill and obviously on lookout. "But I have an idea about that. The rare book room in the library is pretty much a clean room, including being contained by the same bio safety glass we use in the labs. That's as close to bullet-proof as we have around here, and it has its own air system and two entrances."

"All of its walls are glass, though. Makepeace will be able to see everyone," Cadman began.

"I'm not looking to put the _VIPs_ in there – "

Rodney snapped his fingers. "You want to lure the bad guys inside it and lock them in, since it's got its own, independent security system."

"That you can hack, and lock down, right, McKay?" Lorne asked as he grinned and nodded. "We only have to contain them until the cavalry comes."

"Of course I can," Rodney snapped.

"But there's a problem," John grunted as he signaled Cadman to help him up while the doctor was automatically cleaning up after herself. He swayed when he reached his feet yet Laura, in a show of remarkable sensitivity, stepped away to let Rodney be the one to keep John standing.

"Explain it as we move, Major," O'Neill directed when he was satisfied that John could move.

Move yes, but John wasn't very steady on his feet, and Rodney decided he might be shaking worse than John was. Still, just after Rodney was pretty sure he'd received a stealth squeeze of comfort in return, they started off after O'Neill, who looked like he was leading them all back to the remaining VIPs.

"Sir, Makepeace bragged about a series of plans that would come into play if the first one failed. He is claiming that Vice President Conrad will order an airstrike on Pegasus and Atlantis. Even if the nanite toxin didn't work here, they enacted a similar set up in Dubai, that their spokesman will reference in a statement about their infiltration of Atlantis – "

"What nanite toxin?" Rodney sputtered.

John gripped him tighter to maintain his balance from the suddenness of Rodney's stop. "They subverted the subcues," he explained. "Installed some sort of computer virus, planting snippets within everyone's transmitter, turning them into transceivers that linked and built the code back into something that would work. That's what took down our security systems. But there is also some sort of Sarin or other nerve agent fomenting and spreading throughout a few people as an infection from the hardware, that will reach a point where it will explode out of the body and a spray of blood, nanites and more toxin to infect the people nearby and keep propagating until everyone in the area is dead."

"Subcues?" O'Neill looked back over his shoulder in confusion.

"Subcutaneous transmitters," Rodney supplied as he started the two of them walking again. "The damn _lo-jack_ transmitters the Devlin people developed for tracking people who might be targets for kidnapping. Elizabeth and several others here have them – " Rodney suddenly clutched John tightly enough that John was twisting away from the pain before Rodney realized what he'd been doing and let go. Fortunately John was able to pull himself together enough to do nothing more than stumble close enough to the wall to hold himself up, while Rodney was left to wrap his arms around himself in horror at what he was doing …

And thinking.

"Sumner had one of the deadly ones, as did Aiden and Joseph Markham, but Makepeace claims Elizabeth's was clean, as are the others installed in our people," John answered as if he was reading Rodney's thoughts. "There was apparently some concern over being able to control the when and wheres of the toxin part of the attack, so they could limit their own exposure. Fortunately, the nanites holding the biological portion are neutralized if the host dies before a certain build up, which is why Aiden killed himself, and why I had to kill Sumner." John stumbled again, even with Rodney taking his arm over his own shoulder and snaking his other arm around John's waist.

Rodney shuddered himself, thinking about Aiden's act of murder-suicide actually being damn brave and noble instead of sordid. With Sumner, he would have expected it, _Semper Fi_ and all, but –

Fuck.

Not Sumner.

"Sir, we're going to have to find a way to get you to the DHS guys outside so you can give them the real low down," John continued, with no acknowledgment of his confession or anyone's reaction to it, not even Rodney's. "No doubt Simmons is already outside, if he's behind the coup. All he'd need to do is add his own observations to support the claims coming from the foreign threat. Conrad wouldn't have to be part of it. Unless someone can claim the threat's been eliminated, he'll have no choice but to make sure the toxin is wiped out, along within anyone who's potentially been exposed."

"But if Sam's been able to get away – " Rodney started to protest. If O'Neill ended up trying to get outside of the perimeter, that would mean Cadman or Lorne would have to go join up with Elizabeth as her military back up, which would leave only the other – and John – to deal with the threat still inside.

"Sheppard's right, we can't count on that," O'Neill growled. "Plus she doesn't know about the biological. If that threat is still viable, I'll pull the trigger on us myself. But I'll be damned if I get blown up _before_ we bring down the Trust once and for all."

"Hey, Rodney, I think you'd better take a look at this," Cadman suddenly called out. In another show of ingenuity and common sense, she had not only picked up Rodney's laptop from where he'd forgotten it, but was now coming up to Rodney and John's side so Rodney could see what she was trying to show them instead of doubling the length of John's walk – or slowing down the team's forward progress.

Using the library as the center point, Rodney found _two_ blobs of energy signatures converging toward it, both roughly the same size (meaning either the ones that weren't them was a team coming in from outside Atlantis, or Makepeace had been able to meet up with his reinforcements). The largest collection of people were a good quarter mile away from the library at this point. Right, on their way to the Wormhole X-Treme ride.

"Shit, whatever your brilliant idea is to get the bad guys into the library, you better get going because the _good_ guys are already gone. That other group of someones on the approach that isn't us contains more than two people – like maybe five or six," Rodney yelped. "If you're going to need me to take control of the rare book security system, I'm going to need to do it now, and I'm going to need to do it _here_."

"The civilians leaving is probably Liz' doing," O'Neill sounded pleased, but only for a moment. "Any idea where she's taking them?"

No one answered, leaving O'Neill to frown and try again. "I don't suppose any of you earned any marksmanship ribbons before you left the service?"

"I just blew shit up, General," Cadman replied first.

"No ribbon, sir, but I can usually hit what I aim for," came from Lorne.

Rodney could feel John's intake a breath prior to his giving his own answer. He gave John a squeeze and a little shake of his head; John was in no condition to play sniper even if they had a rifle instead of the stupid handgun. "I thought the plan was to trap them, not shoot them," Rodney reminded the others instead.

"They've got back-up plans, we make back-up plans." But O'Neill didn't sound all that upset. "And I guess that's you," he addressed Lorne and handed over their one handgun.

"Okay. Janet, you and I are going to draw them in, with the former Lieutenant here, who's going to have to play the part of the President. She's about the right size, well, maybe she's half a foot too short, but if we keep her between us…" He started pulling off his flight jacket and tossed it Cadman's direction.

"She's also a red head instead of blonde – "

"Which is why she's going to put my jacket over the back of her head, McKay," O'Neill snapped. "It'll look like she's using it as some sort of protection, as well as cover up a bunch of sins, including her height if she holds it up. We're going to be moving too fast for them to get a good look anyway. Captain, your job will be to take out any of them that don't follow us, and McKay, it's going to be all up to you to make sure they _can't_ follow us right back out again. I'm assuming I can leave you to watch _his_ back, Major?"

John nodded and pulled away to stand on his own so that Rodney could take back his computer. "I suggest redirecting the VIPs over into Lemuria instead of Shambhala, move them into the _Theatre de Kumari Kandam_.. It's big enough to spread them out along the rows of seats instead of grouping them all together in a cluster. Cadman can show you, she spent most of the morning there setting up the charges for tonight's show. It's also got enough fire exits to scatter the party through into small groups, if none of the rest of this works." He turned to Laura.

"Maybe you'll want to look into running the stage show too? Half of its projections are just to augment the actors' appearances, so if you keep it with low lighting, the holograms should be distracting and give the shooters a lot more targets to waste their ammo on."

"On the stage, maybe," Rodney muttered without really thinking, as he began to pry open one of the wall panels. It would be easier to go back into one of the utility corridors and hook up to one of the terminals there, but having already done so, he knew which wires went to that part of the system throughout the entirety of the complex and could manage the hack here and now instead of loosing five or eight minutes getting to the more favorable location.

"Actually, there are holographic emitters all throughout the audience, Rodney," Lorne corrected him. "Daniel thought it would make for a much more interesting show if the audience felt it was part of it. We should be able to jump the play to the last third – "

"Ooh, yeah, we can stage the final battle between the Atlanteans and their enemy," Cadman seemed to be on the same wavelength as her boss. "The pyrotechnics are already slaved to the computer board. Adding all those bangs and flashes, the tangos aren't going to know where to shoot if it comes to that."

"Sounds like a plan, kids," O'Neill gave his approval. "We get them into the library, then you all meet in Lemuria when you've finished your tasks and hold out there, or bug out, every man for himself as a last resort. I'll get to the DHS either in your security center or their trailers outside, one way or the other. And deal with Simmons and Conrad if I have to."  


*****

Normally John could watch Rodney work for hours. There was something mesmerizing about his sheer competence, about the simply fluidity of his movements and thoughts when Rodney interacted with a computer. Especially when Rodney was working on the fly, inventing something or hacking a program and turning it into something that had never existed before Rodney thought it up.

The added fear of this needing to be done because their home was under attack didn't really detract from the experience; John had lived in the pressure-cooker of war for long enough to be able to put fear and anticipation aside and simply float in the moment, hyper aware of his surroundings while also fascinated and appreciative of someone else's skill, banking his own particular talents to be able to call them forth if they were needed. Pain was also compartmentalized; adrenaline back doing its job now that John was responsible for Rodney's well being. He had only a handful of firecrackers and simple flash bangs to use against the enemy, those and Rodney's brain, which was proving to be quite formidable once more.

"Okay, I have access to the security system," Rodney murmured and tapped his screen and then one of the function keys. The screen cleared from lines of code into a live video feed of the library. Another tap of a key and the images split into four.

"I'm afraid that if I tap into all of the local cameras, the images will shrink and degrade too much to be of use, so we're only seeing the output from the four in the rare books annex. And, no, there's no sound feed," Rodney offered before John could ask.

John nodded and opened his mouth to praise Rodney but then nearly fumbled and dropped the computer when Rodney shoved it into his hands. If he had dropped it, he would have undone all of Rodney's work by pulling loose the cables and clips that were bridging the laptop with the wall's internal cabling. "What the hell, Rodney?" he growled and readjusted his grip so that he was supporting the computer with both arms instead of just the one that was still bleeding, albeit not very badly.

"As soon as O'Neill and the others make it out of the rare book room, and the bad guys come in, hit the F1 key to lock it down. Oh, you can also hit the F12 to toggle between the localized camera view and the overview grid we're using as a sensor," Rodney added as he began moving away from John. "Sorry that I can't give you both on the same screen."

"Where the fuck are you going?" John couldn't put the computer down; the cables weren't long enough to reach the floor. This was obviously payback for John leaving him earlier. He was going to kill Rodney, assuming someone else didn't do it for him.

Rodney stopped at the corner he was about to turn past. "Once I get access direct to one of the utility consoles, I plan to shut and secure all of the fire doors. I'll then reprogram the entire complex so that everyone but you and me are completely locked out. Basically, I intend to trap everyone where they are until we have enough Marines to deal with them."

"Rodney, O'Neill _has_ to make it outside to the DHS people. It may already be too late."

"Then it won't matter, will it?" Rodney turned so John could meet his eyes. "Look, John. The only people I trust are you, me and Jeannie. And maybe Radek. Elizabeth too, I guess. Oh, and probably Sam – "

"Rodney!"

"Okay. I'm going to make sure no one else gets hurt or killed, and if the fucking toxin wasn't neutralized, _I'm_ going to contain the threat potential. We both know that if Sam got away safely, she's not going to pull the trigger – or allow Conrad to – not before getting some sort of confirmation from someone here she trusts that she absolutely needs to. I'm buying all of us time, John. Sure, O'Neill will be pissed off, but it's not like you work for him anymore. This way I'll also be able to spend the time getting the comms back on-line, without worrying about getting a bullet in my head or, worse, you taking the damn bullet for me. Ten minutes tops, John. Well, fifteen, counting travel time to take care of the first part."

"Rodney, no," John protested. "It's not safe for you to go out there alone. Stay until we know whether the mousetrap works. Then we'll go together so I can keep an eye on Evan's group and O'Neill, while you do your hacker fu and – "

"Sorry, John, but this is another case of those clear lines between the type of tasks each of us are best suited to do."

Hearing his own words thrown back at him was enough to make John see red, but Rodney wasn't gloating, was in fact looking about as scared as John had ever seen him. Also more fucking brave than John had ever wanted to see from him. Rodney was right, dammit. They probably didn't have the time to perform each task sequentially.

"Go, but you better fucking hide if you hear _anything_." Not that Rodney needed his permission, of course, and not that John could have stopped him without compromising everybody else. He still resented like hell that Rodney had put him into this position, but this was the hand he'd been dealt and just because it always had before, not all of them had to end as a target for an RPG, right?

John made himself look away from where Rodney disappeared. He turn his attention back to the computer and to a countdown in his head for Rodney's fifteen minutes. O'Neill's little group was in frame now, moving from foreground to background as if in a great hurry, although they were mainly wasting momentum – giving the appearance of being panicked. That should mean that the tangos were within O'Neill's sight though John didn't see them on camera yet. John pressed the toggle and saw only one distorting blob of energy that he supposed were the two groups overlapping. Probably on different levels.

Inside his head, John began a second time count to tell him how long he could watch the lone moving dot owning the first count, before he should switch the screen view back to check on the others.

At two hundred and seventy seconds, John saw Makepeace come into the camera frame, plus the vague shapes a couple more people behind him although John couldn't make out the actual number Makepeace was leading. By they way they were moving, it was obvious they'd caught sight of what they thought was the President. At three hundred and fifty four seconds, O'Neill was leading Laura and the President's doctor through the other door. John gave them twenty three more seconds to get Makepeace's group spread throughout the room, then hit the lock key.

He gave them thirteen seconds to figure out they were trapped, then it took him twenty-seven more to pull the cables from the back of Rodney's laptop – Rodney would have his head if he simply yanked everything loose. After that he tucked it under his arm and took off after Rodney, seven minutes now gone. Rodney should have reached his destination and already be underway with his undermining. John figured he'd need a couple more minutes than Rodney had to get there, passing the theoretically ten/fifteen minute completion time.

God, so much could happen in eleven minutes and nine seconds.

A fire door began swinging shut in front of John. Were he one hundred percent, he might have tired to beat it, but instead of racing, he reached under his shirt and withdrew his old tags and current badge off over his head, wrapping the chain up in his hand so he could simply swipe his hand over the nearest sensor and get the door opening for him without having to adjust his stride. This evidence that Rodney had at least made it this far without being accosted eased some of the tension in John's shoulders, but until he actually saw Rodney –

That took an additional two hundred and thirty-eight seconds, the fear inspired countdown finally giving way to heart-stopping relief, which in turn flowed almost immediately into anger in the face of Rodney's smug expression.

"Jesus, Rodney, if you ever do something like that again, I'll – "

"What? Kill me? _Leave_ me?" Rodney rocked on his heels and raised his chin. "Either response is rather pointless, not to mention contradictory to your concern. You're not even going to withhold sex, you know – "

"Jesus _fuck_ , Rodney!" John shoved the laptop back into Rodney's hands, then shoved Rodney back against the nearest wall with his entire body. He covered Rodney's mouth with his own, needing to shut him up before Rodney could say anything more, needing to touch and feel and _know_ Rodney was safe. He started to raise his hands to clutch at Rodney's neck and shoulder, his own shoulder then reminding him that adrenaline could only bolster a man so far.

When John sagged, Rodney let the laptop tumble and took his weight, gentling the contact between them, expressing his own concern, his apology, his mutual fright, along with his mutual passion and love with lips and fingers and strength.

"We've got to keep going," John finally breathed against Rodney's neck. "Pick up O'Neill's group and Evan, meet up with Elizabeth and Jeannie … "

"And figure out how we're getting out of here," Rodney agreed with a tight squeeze on the back of John's neck. "You – are we okay?"

John nodded and forced himself to straighten up and pull away from the comfort of Rodney's hold. "I'm still pissed off."

Rodney knelt down and reclaimed his laptop; chosen not just for its computing power and storage, but for its durability as Rodney had a tendency to express his temper by waving his hands while he ranted, and more than one piece of equipment had found itself on the floor in pieces in the past. "I am too, for your own disappearing act. But you wouldn't be you if you didn't throw yourself on the grenade, so I guess I have to accept the bad to get the good."

"Only did that once," John muttered and tugged Rodney to his feet.

"What?" Rodney pulled away and nearly dropped his laptop again.

"Joke, Rodney. Pilots don't carry grenades, at least Air Force pilots don't."

"Why would anyone fall on their own grenade?"

John gave Rodney a whack on the back of his head, then a tug on the ends of Rodney's hair that would probably be trimmed in the next week or so, since there was enough that he could really tug. He then nudged at the laptop before pushing Rodney to start off back toward the library.

"Can you figure out how many pockets of people you've caught, and where?"

A flick of Rodney's nimble fingers had the hibernating screen shifting back to camera view, showing five very pissed off men searching in vain for a way out of the rare book room through four different camera angles. If they were lucky, the assholes wouldn't take it out on the books –  
"Rodney, if a fire starts in that room, will the sprinkler and suppression system override the security locks?"

Rodney shook his head. "Not with what I've done. Hopefully they're smart enough to figure that out before they try something like that and kill themselves. _Our_ people are out of there, right?" he then asked, somewhat belatedly since he'd just sentenced anyone within the rare book room to death if they did think the fire control system would let them break free.

"Yeah. Uh, I don't suppose you can hook us into the PA system so we can warn them not to bother? Otherwise, Doctor Jackson may end up really, really pissed to lose all those books."

"No, and it looks like one of them is smart enough to understand the risk," Rodney gestured to the screen.

Makepeace was shouting at the two men that were supporting a third on their shoulders who was holding up a lighter.

"You do realize this could mean that not only did they have someone on the inside of Pegasus, but working in Atlantis too?" Rodney offered up. "The two computer systems aren't linked yet or even networked, and I don't think the knowledge they have about the workings here came from Aiden or his girlfriend."

"Damon Peterson wrote the virus," John said as he recalled the name Makepeace had gloated over. The guy could have been sacked before John had accepted Elizabeth's offer, the two of them had just never met, or he'd simply been someone John didn't remember. From Rodney's muffled snort, Rodney did, which meant something, since Rodney barely remembered Jeannie's name sometimes.

"He's a putz." Rodney started clicking through new screens that showed Atlantis by sectors. "I can beat him. Hell, _Madison_ can beat him when it comes to programming. It won't matter what kind of back doors he wrote into Pegasus – which I'll have closed before morning, by the way. And his back doors won't be here in Atlantis. Novak's intern had some problems with the Peg side base code, so Novak worked with him rewriting their own for the Atlantis security systems. Hey, that means whatever locked us out on the perimeter is not something Peterson did."

John stumbled and nearly lost his footing when Rodney stopped without warning.

"Shit, was Bates lying?" Rodney grabbed hold of John's arm, his eyes wide and frantic. "Did we just send Maddie and Sam straight into one of the Trust back-up plans that you claim they've set up?"

"Rodney, no." John ignored the burning in his shoulder when he grabbed Rodney in turn with both his hands. "I swear that Cam Mitchell is not a member of the Trust!"

"But how can you be sure?"

"I _know_ , Rodney." John gave him a little shake to redirect and calm him down. "I'd not only trust him with Madison's or the President's life, but _yours_.. And I'd do the same with Eugene Bates."

"Oh, well … um…"

"Rodney, let's just deal with the things we can control. How many heat sources do you actually pick up?"

Rodney took one of the deep, slow breaths that Carson and Jennifer kept after him to employ when he got like that. He met John's eyes with a look that was part sheepishness, part hope and so much fucking faith that again John almost stumbled under the weight of it.

"Okay, this is us," Rodney pointed to his screen. "And this is the group trapped in the library," he scrolled up. "I won't be able to tell if Lorne is still in area until we get closer because of the scale and overlap. Same as to whether _all_ of the bad guys were caught in the rare book room. But at this point, even if there was someone left outside to hunt for us, they're trapped on the main floor of the library anyway, so they shouldn't be a threat to us."

He continued to scroll his screen upward. "Now, these two small groupings that aren't quite overlapping? I'd guess that one is Cadman and the doctor, while the one who reached the red section is O'Neill. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing for sure until we catch up and confront them. Well, we'll probably hear Cadman _and_ O'Neill swearing at me, even through a fire door." Rodney gave a shrug and a weak smile.

John squeezed Rodney's shoulder before rubbing the back of his own neck in a vague attempt to relieve some of the tension in his muscles. "What about Elizabeth, Jeannie and the others?"

"Here," Rodney showed another grouping at the edge of the map. "I think. It's not big enough or far enough along to indicate they caught up to the VIPs, though it's bigger than just the four we sent off. It looks like they made it as far as the arboretum, so it's quite possible that they found some stragglers that jumped the timing of the tour. The main group is here," he said as he redirected his screen once more and a new, large series of dots took over the screen. "At least they got stopped before reaching the vertical elevator instead of in it when I initiated the lockdown."

It was hard to judge relative distances by the map on the screen, but John was pretty intimate with Atlantis' layout, and it looked like Elizabeth hadn't made it even halfway to the others before being stopped by the closed doors. He hoped to god that didn't mean Jeannie was experiencing further difficulties beyond the known crap.

"Oh, fuck."

John dropped his attention back to Rodney's face, then to Rodney's screen and the end of Rodney's finger. There was another collection of heat sources within the Thule concourse. Still moving.

"How?"

Rodney just looked sick when he met John's gaze, the lines of concentration that had been deepened by shock and fear from the moment Bates first contacted them now slackened, as if Rodney just couldn't process any more threats. John had seen it happen in Afghanistan – his co-pilot; one of the medics; too often the guys they were trying to evac – all people who had simply had enough and started to shut down.

No doubt he had only to look in a mirror to see the same in his own expression. He couldn't give up, though, wouldn't let Rodney give up. Not that it was his vaunted training that motivated him now. Back in Afghanistan or the Philippines or in North Korea, he'd kept going because he had his team, because it was the right thing to do, the necessary thing. Because protecting people and freedom was why he'd joined the Air Force in the first place. Back then he couldn't save everyone and death was inevitable, maybe even his own, but that was okay as long as he made the attempt. Back then it was easy, because duty never held him in his arms at night, and seeing the sun rise each morning was his only measure of the future.

In all of his life, John Sheppard had never really had a reason other than team and duty to _live_ before. The sudden realization that he couldn't just court Death and Lady Luck in equal measure burned through him so much more deeply than the bullet had burned through his shoulder.

Not that he still wouldn't do everything necessary to keep Rodney safe, including stepping in front of another bullet.

"Rodney…" He still couldn't stop his voice from sounded a little broken.

"Wait … I … uh. There is actually a pretty good possibility that this group is Radek." Rodney had turned back to the screen and expanded the map to take in the location. "He … I might have given him _my_ pass codes a while back, and that's the exit we sent them through," he said as he pointed to a spot maybe two thousand yards back from the group if John was reading the dimensions correctly.

"He is sometimes smart enough to keep up with me …"

Rodney looked up again. There was a small part of John that cringed and wanted to draw back from revealing so much of himself, from the way Rodney could just flay him bare with a look. But it was only fair, when everything Rodney felt or was thinking had been offered to John from the very beginning. If he truly returned the faith, the _trust_ in Rodney that Rodney always displayed in him, then he shouldn't keep hiding –

"Oh, hey, no, it's just that I … I – I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have before – I didn't mean…"

Rodney reached out to him, touching, drawing his fingers down John's arm to pull gently at his dog tag chain that had turned John's hand bloodless for how tight he'd entwined it around his fingers.

"It's just, um … well, I guess I react to certain doom in a certain way. It's a bad habit and … and …"

"And now you think that might be Radek." John couldn't force out anything more than a whisper. . Rodney nodded. "Radek and Sam's Secret Service detail, who should all have guns and who are obviously on our side, because if any of them were part of the Trust, they could have done Sam in at anytime without having to go through all of this … this Byzantine bullshit … "

"Bullshit?" John raised his brow. "Well, that makes for a nice alliteration." He then choked out a laugh when Rodney just looked at him. Bullshit just wasn't a word big enough, intense enough to encompass what was happening.

Or what they were feeling.

Rodney tipped his head to concede John the point. "More … ah, more guns would be good."

"We still have to worry about an air strike," he pointed out, though John wasn't actually disagreeing. Rodney was right. More – any – guns would be a great idea. "So we need to find and release O'Neill first. Then hook up with Radek or, if that's not them … well, we'll figure out how to confirm their identities and – "

"And if it's not Zelenka?"

"If it's not, we'll find another way to stop them, Rodney. A way to make sure our people remain safe. But I'm sure it'll be Radek." If it wasn't then they were completely and totally fucked, unless he and Rodney just ran for it themselves with no regard for any of the rest of their people.

"Wishing doesn't make it so," Rodney began, his tone pure condescension.   
"Rodney, this isn't something to argue about!" John snarled.

"Oh … uh … Right. I wasn't … I didn't …" Rodney fluttered the hand not clutching the laptop and any trace of superiority fell from his face. "Sorry, I – "

"Just react a particular way to potential doom," he quoted back. "I get it, Rodney, I'm sorry too." He closed his eyes for a moment. Adrenaline was great, right up until it ate through all your reserves, so additional shots of it left you with a sick stomach and a pounding headache to go with everything else.

"John?" Rodney's tone was gentle, as was his touch against John's face. "Maybe we should take a little break first?"

John shook his head. "If I stop, I'm not going to be moving again for a while. But if you need to check in with Jeannie or something, I can leave you there and go on after the General. I'll just take Mehra back with me for the meet up with O'Neill and Radek, then Evan next – "

"Mehra? Who in the hell is Mehra?"

"Dusty Mehra. She's the woman on Elizabeth's detail." John rubbed against the back of his neck again. "I'd prefer not to split up anymore, but … "

Rodney gave him a brave smile. "O'Neill first, together, then I'll do something else fiendishly remarkable that will stop Zelenka or whomever from advancing. We'll sneak up on Cadman after that, then Evan, and finally over to the VIPs, getting them to the theatre and picking up Dusty so we have enough people to confront Zelenka or not-Zelenka, as the case may be."

John gave him what he hoped was a warm and confident smile in return. "Obviously you've gotten on as Admin on the system here; can you wipe everything out? My code and yours, and create something brand new for only the two of us?"

"That will limit even our access and progress, since the average fire door doesn't have a keypad," Rodney frowned, but was already looking distracted – intrigued.

"Well, we'll have to override the fire suppression system first then, even if it lets everyone advance until you've rewritten things to box everyone in somewhere else. Ultimately, we really just need to be able to keep Radek's group out of the library and the theater, plus whatever fallback position we come up with, in case they've sussed out that part of our plan already."

John decided not to mention that if he'd been Makepeace, he'd have a least one more person not yet in play – someone with the VIP group that now included Jeannie and Elizabeth and a whole handful of useful hostages. He was pretty sure O'Neill would be expecting the same thing, would have said something to Cadman and Evan, though they probably were also thinking it.

Makepeace had four men with him right now in the library. John had killed one after he'd killed Sumner, so the three others had also been holed up somewhere, hiding in secret or hiding in plain sight. Someone had also killed Joseph Markham, which could have been any of Makepeace's team, or yet another player. Plus O'Neill had said Simmons was on the loose, and he probably wasn't traveling alone. God, too many unknowns and definitely not enough guns. If ever he needed Lady Luck and a Hail Mary play …  


*****

Rodney purposefully kept his attention on the computer screen, even though the dots they were heading toward hadn't moved now in five minutes. He didn't need to see the sweat beading at John's hairline or the deepening of the fine lines around John's mouth and eyes that weren't evidence of sun and humor right now, to know that John was worried as well as hurting. Mainly though, Rodney didn't want to see John come unglued again, as he had there for a few moments. That had nearly scared Rodney to death. He'd been with John when he was hurt, angry, drunk and furious, but Rodney had never really seen John scared before, and even the steely-eyed gaze of the soldier/killer John could become wasn't as terrifying.

"Do you need any more Tylenol?" he asked softly. That should be safe; John could have a fever over 100 and be throwing up and he'd 'just be a little off', so there was no point in asking if he was okay. Or asking again if he needed a break.

John turned and gave him a tired smile. "It's only been forty some minutes since the doctor left, Rodney. I'm just tired. I'm pretty sure I've stopped bleeding."

Rodney didn't want to look at that either, but he slowed down a step and dutifully glanced ahead to see that, yes, the bandage around the back of John's shoulder didn't seem to be any redder.

"Where are you going to need to go to take over the system completely?" John asked as they approached the first two sets of small energy signatures.

"I can release the fire doors right now. But to overwrite everything, I'll need to use one of the security nodes, not one of the utility ones."

"And we need that to get O'Neill out."

Rodney shrugged. "It depends on whether Radek got in before I shut everything down or not. He could have already done something similar. Maybe we should tackle that first."

John shook his head. "Not without more back-up, just in case."   
"Okay. So O'Neill first and send him off to find a door to the outside. I mean, he can just go to the fence and yell at the Homeland Security people. It's not like a direct conversation can be jammed. Someone out there is going to know his voice, right?"

"They should, but without a visual confirmation, they wouldn't know if he was being coerced. Sorry. Standard procedure is to assume the worse."

"Paranoid much?" Rodney scowled at this typical military behavior or, as he thought of it, stupidity. "So are they going to believe _Sam_ when she makes contact?" He'd almost said if, but thinking that got him nothing but more panic and too many dark scenarios.

"There are … protocols for these types of situations within the military," John confirmed, though he didn't look particularly reassured or reassuring. "Rotating emergency channels that only she and her Secret Service are going to know, plus code words. There's a channel the military use too, in the case of terrorist attack. The trouble is since the military and part of her own government is involved, they'll know those codes too."

As if realizing he was pretty much stripping Rodney of all hope, John reached over and closed his hand around the back of Rodney's neck, drawing them into something of a hug, though mainly they just touched the sides of their heads together.

"Actually, since this isn't the first time the Trust has tried this, I bet there's an additional set of codes that only the Prez and her Secret Service know that, when used, would clue someone in if she was being coerced or had been compromised. So, yeah, there is a good chance it'll be believed that Carter got out. The trouble with _that_ is we don't know how far the conspiracy goes, and what Makepeace's people have set up to neutralize her further."

Rodney brought them to a halt. "Then why in the hell are we even trying?" he sputtered. "It's all a zero sum game. Why bother coming up with solutions if we're going to be stymied and die anyway? If it's fucking pointless, I'd rather we find a comfortable spot somewhere and just fuck each other's brains out until the end."

"Next time, Rodney," John pressed a kiss against Rodney's temple and squeezed the back of his neck again. He gave Rodney a little push to start them moving forward once more. "We're here." He gestured to Rodney's laptop which showed their energy signatures now overlapping with the first they'd been heading toward. "Well, at least someone's just beyond the door around the corner. Even if that dot is one level above us, I think we can count on it being O'Neill or Evan, since the closest exit from the rare book room would have been through the mezzanine. Even if the dot is on this level, it should be O'Neill, since he would be looking for a way to get to ground level."

"But how are we going to check, without having to open the door and stick our heads in? If it is the bad guys … hey, you know Morse code, right? You can tap something and Lorne or O'Neill are going to know it in return and can tap something back."

"Anyone military is going to know Morse code," John reminded him gently. "Nor can you use it to ask something like mother's maiden name or who was waiting at the puddlejumper."

"If it was Radek behind the door I could make him play Prime Not Prime with only Fermat primes, but …"

"Fermat primes?"

Rodney raised his chin. "It would be much easier to spell out Fermat than Fibonacci."

"Or Mersenne or Strobogrammatic," John agreed with a small laugh, proving once more he was much better suited to working in the Science and Research division of Pegasus than staying the Air Force –

Hey, Air Force! "Is there something Air Forcey that only you, O'Neill and Lorne would know?" Rodney asked hopefully.

John raised his brow. "Air Forcey?"

"Bite me. And think. O'Neill and Janet were the only Air Force members in the VIP party, right? Every one else was Navy or Marines." This could work. Get John to use his brain instead of sacrificing his body –

"I have no idea if anyone else was Air Force, Rodney," John punctured that hope. "Regardless of the fact that I happened to indirectly work for O'Neill a couple of times early in my Air Force career, there were over three hundred thousand active duty personnel when I was still in, and I'm afraid I just haven't memorized all their names."

Rodney scowled. "Fine, be an ass. I was just asking about the likelihood of Simmons or whoever using both Marines and Air Force as his lackeys. And trying to come up with some way of moving forward with this that didn't involve us playing target in case we got it wrong."

"Right, sorry," John rubbed at his face. "I'm just …"

Tired? Hurt? Scared out of your mind? Rodney didn't need to ask, because he knew the answers even as he knew John would never admit to them. He, of course, was feeling the same, well except for the having been shot part. Along with feeling frustrated and more than a little pissed off at the fuckers who had instigated all of this.

"I'm sorry too, John," he offered his own tired smile. "It's just that I left the DOD and you left the Air Force and we shouldn't have to be the ones trying to save the day, you know? Really, isn't it someone else's turn?"

"Next time, I promise. You ready?"

At least John didn't suggest or physically force Rodney to step back away from the door this time. Whatever it was, for good or for ill, they'd face it together and the fact that John understood that this time went a long way to enabling Rodney to say yes.

The corridor beyond was empty.

Rodney wanted to feel relief – there was no one shooting at them after all. But that only meant that their target was up another level and that he'd have to find his courage all over again at the next door.

"Stairs are this way." John started moving immediately, relying on Rodney to keep up and no doubt knowing exactly where Rodney's mind was right now, denying him time to over-think it.

For whatever reason, John didn't attack the stairs like he normally did, double-timing his pace or taking two at once as if they were something to be conquered. Rodney knew for a fact that John regularly had stairs as part of his running routine, something he said were called grinders and were a leftover from his high school and college track days even if Pegasus didn't have a stadium or any stairwells with fifty to seventy-five continuous steps. Rodney kept up, which should have been a good thing, only he couldn't help worrying that John wasn't setting a slow pace for Rodney so much as he was moving at the best pace his own body could handle right now.

Obviously John wasn't indestructible, even when he wasn't crashing planes or getting shot, but it was a lot easier on Rodney's psyche when Rodney could chose to believe so.

The second door was just as anti-climatic, even though the new corridor wasn't empty. For the second time in his life, Rodney was glad to see Laura Cadman, not to mention a voodoo doctor, who was all business as she bullied John against another wall and checked over his wound while they caught their breath and maybe got their heart rates back to something like normal.

"So the fire doors and lock out was your doing?" Cadman asked as Rodney made a point of staying away from bandages being removed and replaced, and all of the blood.

He nodded. "I disabled everyone's badges and pass codes except for John's and mine. Unfortunately, someone else is still getting around, so it's either Radek who knows my pass code, or one of the bad guys figured out a work around. John thinks we need to get O'Neill to the DHS guys first – we thought you two were O'Neill – and it's probably just Radek, although that still means I'm going to have to change my codes as the rat bastard stole my password and – "

"Hey, McKay, chill," Cadman tried to calm him and started tugging at his computer. "And breath. This thing got any games on it while we wait?"

"Don't you dare." Rodney clutched it back. "You'd probably erase my hard drive."

"Like you don't have it backed-up nine ways to Sunday," she laughed. "But, it has turned out to be pretty handy today, so you get a pass on your paranoia. You've been pretty handy too, Wile."

Wile, for Wile E. Coyote, _super-genius_ , her idea of a nickname and maybe Rodney kinda liked it, as most of the nicknames he'd even gotten as a kid had _not_ been given by friends. He'd never let on, though, calling her things in return even he would normally never say to a woman, just as he wasn't going to thank her now for her distraction   
"You doing okay there, Sir?" she then directed to John.

Rodney followed her gaze and saw that the doctor was just finishing up with whatever she'd been doing, though John was still leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

"I can take Rodney if you need – "

"I'll keep up just fine, _Laura_ ," John called back, the emphasis on her name obvious and deliberate, as was the way he pulled away from the wall and pulled himself together.

John had a thing about being called sir; he had no direct employees that he supervised except on individual projects, said he refused to get his PhD so people couldn't call him Doctor, and pretty much went out of his way to avoid responsibility for anything other than his projects. More than one Pegasus department manager and executive had problems in figuring out how to deal with John, not understanding John's place in the hierarchy and thinking of him only as Elizabeth's trophy boyfriend at first and, now, as Rodney's.

Rodney had always figured it had been the same in Air Force, with much of the Brass assuming John promotions were due to family connections instead of any skill. He'd concluded few of John's COs had ever paid attention to what, exactly, John successfully accomplished, and disregarded the fact that anyone who'd ever worked for John on a mission had only praise and would work for him again in a heartbeat.

"Of course, S – John," Cadman snapped out as crisply as if she was actually saluting.

"As Rodney is fond of saying, bite me, Lieutenant. Besides, if we're going to worry about rank or chain of command here, Doctor …"

"Frasier," the doctor answered John's unfinished question. "Janet Frasier. But I believe you also retired out as a Major." She grinned up at John. "And you have front line experience."

"Oh, for the love of – Choosing leadership based on time in service or rank makes absolutely no more sense than choosing it based on cock size," Rodney groused. "Obviously, intelligence is the only pertinent criteria, and there is no doubt – "

"Alright, Kreskin, so what do we do next?" The sarcasm was delivered with a warm smile and a lessening of the tension that had made John look too old.

Rodney was pretty sure this moment of levity and reprieve was genuine, John's natural optimism reasserting itself now that it wasn't just the two of them, even if the decisions were still going to be their responsibility. Being able to tease or laugh at something when you were pretty much facing Armageddon might be a little weird, but it was also a common enough coping factor, otherwise no one would have ever come up with the term gallows humor.

Not Rodney's normal way of reacting, but at least for the moment it was surprisingly easy to follow along.

"Where's O'Neill?"

"Down a level," Janet answered.

"Evan's with him," Cadman added. "Once we were sure Makepeace and his men were trapped, we realized that neither Janet nor the General knew their way around Atlantis enough for them to reach their destinations without a guide. So I was escorting the good doctor here to the VIPs in Lemuria while Evan took the General out. They were going for Hyperborea since that's closest to the Pegasus-Atlantis border."

"Who in the fuck came up with those names for the concourses? Please, John, don't tell me it was you." Rodney had to rant, after keeping quiet every other time they'd been mentioned.

John shook his head defensively. "Elizabeth wanted to keep the whole mythological, lost worlds theme going. I suggested some cool city and planet names out of science fiction, including Arkham or Miskatonic and Magrathea but Elizabeth didn't get the jokes and was worried about getting the rights anyway. Then Daniel Jackson offered up enough names out of real myths and histories and she was sold."

"And him not even a real employee." Rodney waved away the absurdity of Lemuria, Hyperborea and Shambhala. "Well, regardless, he's not allowed to ever name anything again."

Mu might have made a sort of sense, from a mathematical standpoint, and at least Thule was easy to pronounce and spell, while everyone knew Avalon like they knew Atlantis itself. But Rodney bet within the first six months, at least one of the internal publications for Atlantis would have at least one of locations misspelled on a map or a description, and that the employees, would simply call them by the color schemes.

"We get back underway and you can tell both Elizabeth and Danny all about it in about fifteen minutes," Cadman said and shoved against Rodney's shoulder. "Right, Sir?"

John scowled, but nodded. "Okay, O'Neill and Evan must have been another couple of doors beyond the stairs we took to find you two," he addressed the women. "After we meet up with them, Laura, I'm going to switch you out with Evan and have you get the General out, because Rodney's going to release the security lock-down so you can get though. That's also going to mean if Makepeace has more men, they'll be back on the move too, so just find your nearest exit and get outside. For all we know, there are helicopters and Special Forces all over the grounds by now and I'd appreciate it if someone tells them not to storm in with the rest of us still inside. If the other group of unknowns turns out to be Radek and the President's Secret Service detail on their way back in to assist like we suspect, we'll have enough men and guns to hold our own."

"And if the inside group isn't friendlies?" Janet asked.

"That's why I want Evan, or at least the gun with us," John said matter-of-factly. "We'll get the VIPs into the theater, and once we're all inside, Rodney should have time to completely overwrite the security system so no one can get in, out, or around, unless he approves it, even if they blow a hole in the side of the building. We'll wait in place until someone manages to eliminate the jammers and we get a message saying it's safe to bring the Congresspeople out. Send a text message to Rodney, but on my cell, Laura. Anything different and we'll know it isn't really from you. Sign off with the number 42, so we know you're not being coerced into drawing us into a trap and getting the bad guys a bunch of hostages. If we have to camp out overnight, the various intermission stations already have bottled water and sodas."

Cadman started pulling out her keys and slipped a tiny one off of a ring that held at least ten as John took the lead back down the stairs. "Check out the third drawer down on the left side of the stage manager's desk. It's mine and you'll find some power bars and gorp, with M&Ms stored for those times I can't take a break. Not enough for everyone, but it should keep McKay from hypoglycemic shock, and his sister from getting too hormonal. There were a couple of teenagers as part of the group that might be a handful once they get hungry, but then they might be carrying their own snacks despite the no food on the rides rule. Hey, at least there weren't any little kids along for the tour," she added with a gentle punch against Rodney's arm.

Shit, Rodney hadn't given any thought as to how long ago he'd had anything to eat – or when he'd be getting his next meal. He wasn't feeling off yet, but that could just be the panic and adrenaline. One he stopped moving long enough to crash, he could very well crash in a number of ways.

"Doctor, I know they weren't your responsibility, but I expect you know if any of the politicians had any sort of health concerns or risks we need to worry about?" John asked as he extrapolated beyond Cadman's concerns over Rodney to the others.

And he wondered why people kept looking to him to take charge.

"Given the nature of what this place is and some of the events planned, everyone who made the final list is supposed to be healthy with no conditions that would have kept them off of any of the rides," Janet spoke confidently from her position next to Rodney as they jogged down the stairs. "We might have one or two who are hypertensive or diabetic, but no one who is on insulin that I was made aware of. I know of no one with asthma; at least not bad enough to carry an inhaler. I've got glucose tablets in my kit, enough to get us through the night, and a couple of other little tricks if someone becomes too … uncomfortable with the situation."

"I don't suppose I can talk you into giving me half a diazepam right now?" Rodney muttered.

The doctor looked over at him in surprise. "You take Valium instead of Xanax?"

"DoD doctors were very old school," Rodney grimaced, keeping his voice low, although John probably could hear him. "And very quick to medicate even those of us who needed to use our brains. But, no, I'm not taking either – or anything – like that and I haven't for years. I don't even know why I said anything, other than … "

"Other than having something to blunt the trauma right now sounds pretty appealing," she agreed with a nod and something that looked like sympathy more than pity as they left the stairwell and continued to a door further down the corridor. "I agree. I would be the first to split one with you if I wasn't afraid it would bite me in the ass later on. Don't look so surprised," she added when Rodney did just that.

"I may be Air Force, but I'm no soldier and I'm scared to death right now, even more so than when we were being chased and shot at in the library. Then I had something to do, I had a goal with a very real end in sight," she explained. "That was a lot easier to deal with than the free floating anxiety we're all feeling right now. If it really does get to be too much, let me know and I'll – "

John stopped and held up his fist. Now that he and Janet stopped talking, Rodney could hear the voices that John had already clued in on. No words, but there was more than one, male and as nothing was being screamed or yelled, it was probably O'Neill and Lorne and John was just being careful.

Next stage accomplished.

*****

  
O'Neill wasn't happy, but Evan was the one who looked at them as if betrayed by being caught in the lock-down. John took the heat when Evan started in on Rodney; it had been his suggestion and call, even if it had fucked up O'Neill's plan. He then filled the two in on the new plan and was about to suggest Laura go ahead and take O'Neill, when O'Neill stopped him with a careful grip on his wounded arm.

"You haven't killed yours and McKay's Pegasus access codes yet, right?" O'Neill asked.

"No, Sir," John responded, the 'sir' coming easily for once and despite his years out of the Air Force. If he'd served under O'Neill, he might not have left when he had.

"Then don't. Whoever is also moving through the place likely has their own access that McKay's work isn't going to stop, not without him spending too much time trying to chase them out electronically. If you give me your badge, the Lieutenant and I can move a lot quicker than having to wait for him to give us a new code. I don't know how you feel, but I have the feeling that we've run out of time to waste on roadblocks."

John nodded again, feeling foolish for not having thought of handing off his badge to O'Neill earlier, though to his credit, he and Rodney had needed to separate. Mission focus, he guessed, the goal and his tasks so fixed in his brain that he couldn't imagine another option or perspective.

Of course, agreeing was easier said than done; he'd been gripping the badge and using it without even thinking about it for so long that he's fingers were cramped around it. Trying to unbend them was taking long enough that O'Neill actually intervened and began to help him get untangled from his dogtags chain, again making John feel like an idiot, or at least a rookie.

O'Neill didn't call him on this either, instead leaving with an expression and expectation on his face that John had rarely seen directed his way from past COs, which brought back a certain sense of regret, though he'd still made the right choice. He'd loved his time in the Air Force and would have stayed if they'd have let him. Certainly meeting Rodney had made his leaving completely worth it, but there was something about the bonds developed between squadrons and bunkmates and even bastard COs, for which there was no civilian equivalent, a closeness and acceptance that paled compared to his relationship with Rodney, but also filled a need that Rodney couldn't.

Or maybe that was just the adrenaline and the quarter hit of morphine he'd finally allowed Dr. Frasier to give him. Sure, he was scared and hurting, but knowing O'Neill, Evan and Laura – and even Rodney – had his back had him feeling he could do almost anything. It left him with an exhilaration he'd sworn he would never miss back when he'd gotten out. It also felt so damn good to call upon skills he'd long abandoned. He wasn't sure what that made him, or what it meant for the future, but as long as it got him and Rodney through this, he'd use everything he had.

Evan took point. John and Rodney followed, while the doctor brought up the rear. John had Rodney keep his heat source detector on the unknown party, feeling they'd need to keep aware of their progress more than worrying about where they were going. They knew where they were going, and knew that there hadn't been any further heat sources between them and the arboretum, so there shouldn't be any new heat sources popping up between them. So far, the unknown party wasn't heading directly toward any of the other heat sources, but appeared to be moving steadily on toward the Atlantis core. John wasn't sure if that meant they didn't have their own detector or not – though John figured Radek would have come up with Rodney's solution by now. But John also thought Makepeace's boss or back-up would be moving toward hostages or fellow conspirators, so having them head toward the core instead of people implied it wasn't the traitors.

If it was a government team, blowing doors or walls as they went, shouldn't they be moving slower? Wouldn't they be noticing the consequences by now, either the lighting going down or fire suppression systems being activated, plus some sort of noise? Explosions carried.

Something to keep in mind, but not spend time worrying about. At least not yet.

It took them about six minutes to get to the embarkation station nearest the arboretum, the elevators and tramways still on-line since they were using Rodney's badge. The station opened along the east side of where it was likely the others had entered from, giving them an opportunity to get inside without attracting attention they hoped. Even so, Evan entered first and at a crouch, then immediately swung further to the left while John scanned the right side. A quick check on Rodney's screen still showed the heat sources only to their left, but they weren't going to be stupid about it.

John was about to suggest that Rodney and Doctor Frasier stay back at the door and potential escape until he and Evan identified who made up those heat sources, but raised voices quickly filled them in. As one of the voices was Jeannie's, John knew he had no chance of keeping Rodney back, not when she was railing against someone that sounded like the Secretary of State, who was making threats instead of practicing diplomacy.

"Open the damn doors, Doctor Miller."

"And again, I say fuck you, Mister Secretary. Yes, I'm as smart as my brother. Actually, I'm smarter than him when it comes to statistical mechanics and chemical engineering, not to mention getting along with people and being a parent. No where in that list however, or in my CV, does it state that I know how to hack into a security system. You're stuck in here with the rest of us, until the lockdown is over. That's not going to change just because you want it to."

Evan and John started toward the voices at a run, no longer concerned with being overheard, hoping in fact that they were, that the threat being directed Jeannie's way would shift focus. Rodney had begun following, but pulled up short during Jeannie's claim of being smarter. For just a second John was the one distracted, and unable to believe that Rodney would have stopped because of an insult, but he could see with a twist of his head that Rodney's fingers were flying over his keyboard, an alligator clip twisting from the back of the computer into one of the conduits coming up from the floor to house the drip lines and lighting controls for the nearest table displays of plants surrounding them.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but I don't believe you. And, since we've already done away with the protection detail, I'm afraid there's only one person left to provide you with the proper incentive. Nathan …"

"Don't!" John began to shout, directed not toward Rodney but to Simmons, Nathan, and anyone else that might be there threatening Jeannie, making sure that Simmons knew they'd been caught up to and drawing attention away from Evan too, as the two of them split around the grove of myrrh trees.

Too late. John couldn't yet see the shooter, but he heard the shot as well as Jeannie's scream, then Elizabeth flew back to land in a heap near his feet. He spared the briefest glance and saw red, literally and figuratively.

He dove over the nearest bench, grabbing up a couple of the seedling pots even as he twisted to gain cover but also keep the enemy in sight. Simmons had a hold of Jeannie, but not a weapon that John could see. That belonged to the one Simmons had named as Nathan, plus one more obvious soldier/bodyguard. Neither were Elizabeth's people, so the Trust's inroads hadn't suborned Dusty or Stackhouse, but neither did John see either of those two, and concluded they'd already been killed given Simmons' earlier statement.

Shots followed him, but the only thing endangering him was splinters and shards as the top of the display was shredded, plus his bum knee which he'd banged squarely on one of the paver stones that marked the pathways through the trees and shrubbery. Evan then took care of one of the shooters with his own shot. At the same time, the overhead watering systems came on, set to flood, and most of the lights went out in the area, which took away the remaining shooter's advantage.

John threw one of the pots anyway. It was about the size of a softball but not nearly as aerodynamic, unfortunately. Still, he'd grabbed one filled with something more like sand than dirt, and it produced a spray that reached the other guy even if the pot itself didn't. That was enough to give Evan the time to take the second shooter out too.

Simmons, however, was closer to their guns than either John or Evan, and while Jeannie was able to wrest her way free of him, she had no chance to get clear before Simmons had a gun pointed at her.

"I assume you're behind this, McKay. You've got three seconds to show yourself, or your sister will join your boss. One – "

John had no opportunity to stop Rodney from stepping out into the open. "The door is open now, you idiot. How do you think I got in here?"

"I'll be taking your sister along with me to insure that, McKay. Give her your code or whatever you're using to get through the rest of the complex."

"Unless you plan on helping me deliver my baby, or plan on dragging me by my hair, I'm not going anywhere, fucker," Jeannie snarled back at Simmons with a brittle grin. "My water just broke."

John was pretty sure she was lying, though her tone sounded convincing and it wasn't like any of them were able to tell, given the water still spraying on them as well as the dimmed lighting.

Simmons took a step her direction, but Rodney started toward him with a growl so Simmons turned back toward the greater threat.

"I'll get you out of here," Rodney volunteered.

Biting back his protest, John pulled himself up. He held another of the pots in his hand, this one prepped with a string of Laura's firecrackers buried within the dirt. He'd need to wait until Simmons moved away from Jeannie to light and use it, but he was confident Rodney would drop once he'd thrown it and Evan could take the shot –

Only Evan was also stepping out, his gun centered on Simmons forehead. "You've no where to go, Simmons. If you drop your gun, I won't shoot you. If you move to do anything else, though, I promise you that I will. Before you can get your own shot off."

John had known Evan was ex-Air Force like himself, of course. He hadn't figured him for the same kind of training, and maybe Evan hadn't been special ops, but he obviously knew his way around a gun – and how to intimidate. John believed that he would shoot, as did Simmons, who proved to be the total coward he'd already shown himself for in having Makepeace and others do all of the initial violence. Simmons dropped his gun.

"Now, back up three feet and place your hands on the top of your head," came Evan's next order.

Even as Simmons moved, so did Rodney, heading to Jeannie's side and kneeling down. John couldn't hear what they were saying, even when he limped closer and past them to stay between Simmons and Rodney. Staying also to Evan's right as Evan knelt to recover the guns, with his own not wavering from Simmons. John dropped his firecracker pot next to Evan and accepted one of the guns, though he tucked it at his back so that he could use the wires he'd found to bind Simmons' wrists.

"We still win," the bastard crowed as he let John drag his hands down. "I am but one patriot – "

"Just shut the fuck up," Rodney spat over his shoulder. "We've stopped your stupid nanite toxin and called Conrad's bombers off. You lose."

Well, John certainly hoped O'Neill and Laura had gotten out to call the bombers off. Yeah, they'd won then, assuming Cam had also gotten President Carter to safety. But they'd also lost. Marshall, Aiden, _Elizabeth_ –

The remaining lights suddenly flickered and went out. John felt as Simmons started to move and grabbed, dragging them both down and putting his aching knee against Simmons' chest to keep him immobilized, not caring that Simmons was writhing as his own weight – and John's – pressed Simmons hands into his back and the hard packed dirt. A few seconds passed before Simmons' breath escaped with a whoosh and he lay limp, before John dragged himself off with a grimace and concern that he wasn't going to be getting up himself, any time soon.

"Shit," Evan called out. "John?"

"I've got Simmons," John reassured them.

"Dammit, I need light!" the doctor suddenly shouted from Elizabeth's side. "Find me – "

The lights came back on overhead, bright enough for them to see Rodney's smug expression as he and Jeannie bent over his laptop. The sprinklers shut off next. The last thing that John expected to happen subsequently, however, was for Rodney's phone to begin ringing. For a few seconds they were all stunned into immobility, their brains refusing to reconcile the mundaneness of the noise after what had just happened, not understanding why they were hearing the theme to the Monty Python show.

Rodney came back to himself with a start and practically ripped his pocket off getting his Bluetooth free. "It's Grodin," he informed them as he fitted the earpiece. "Send in the Marines or whoever is in charge of arresting Cabinet members," he then shouted at Peter. "We're in the arboretum."

"Do you really expect them to arrest me?" Simmons coughed out, moving a little to try and ease his position though he was keeping a wary eye on John. "Where is your proof? The shooter is dead and all you have is your word against mine – "

"Like Rodney said before, shut the fuck up, _Frank_ ," John snarled. "We have witnesses enough – "

"Not to mention the video that Elizabeth was shooting with her phone," Frasier said from where she knelt at Elizabeth's side. Her hands were covered in blood and half of a sleeve was now missing, but she held up Elizabeth's new iPhone with an expression of fierce satisfaction.

God, that had been a hack that Rodney had played around with right after they'd gotten the new phones, eager to explore the new tech that Steve Jobs' people had developed, and then supremely frustrated at its limitations. Like only being able to take still photos. Elizabeth had only allowed Rodney to invalidate the warranty to her own phone because he'd promised he could fix it better than Apple or AT&T if something happened.

"Rodney, tell your people we also need a trauma team, and some place to move to without all this dirt and water," she then added.

Rodney hit the mute button on his headset and turned to look at Frasier. John looked too, knowing Lorne was also listening though he hadn't turned his attention away from Simmons or lowered his gun despite the man lying on his hands and back.

"Yes, she's alive," Frasier told them off their looks. "I'd like to keep it that way. I'm assuming you have a clinic on site in Atlantis we can take her to?"

John nodded. "Yeah, it's in Avalon," he answered and tried to picture in his mind the best way to get them there, while Rodney turned his attention back to Grodin and put in the call for Carson or Jennifer. Hopefully they didn't already have their hands full dealing with injuries and trauma over on the Pegasus side.

"Shut up and just listen, Peter," Rodney was saying. "If you've got Feds breathing down your neck, follow their instructions, but also make sure you're the only one handling the operational changes to the security system and computers they might be asking about or demanding. This was another attempted coup by The Trust to get control of the country, so we have no way of knowing who can be trusted over there among our own people, much less theirs. Tell Bates – "

John's phone suddenly rang. Speak of the devil, it was Bates, leaving John to conclude the delay in getting this call had been Bates trying for Sumner first.

John left Simmons to Lorne and crawled a couple of feet away behind one of the planters to give himself a chance to hear above Rodney's excited yelling at Grodin. "Bates, give me your SITREP."

" _We're crawling with soldiers and the Secret Service, but General O'Neill has shown up with Laura Cadman, and has taken control of the situation. Our guys have managed to override the computer and security lock-outs and, as you can tell, the overall jamming, so I've got Chuck coordinating the incoming reports as folks check in_."

"The President?"

"Word is that she and everyone she was with is safe, though no one is saying where they've got them hidden. I talked to your friend Mitchell to confirm what we were told."

John breathed a sigh of relief as Bates went on to relay what their people had found out, and figured out, not at all surprised to find out the conspiracy involved a much wider range of people than the press had ever given The Trust credit for. Not just dissatisfied or ambitious government people and members of the military, it seemed, but corporate moguls had also been involved, with the jammers turning out to be added components installed in the exterior lighting they'd used throughout Pegasus and Atlantis for the streets and parking lots instead of the decoy tech Makepeace had been talking about, which was one of the reasons it had taken so long to get it stopped. Bates had had to send field teams out to trip the breakers at the sources, which was why some areas were still off line.

It was rather daunting to think how The Trust had been making such long-term plans for wild contingencies, to have them presume President Carter would ever come visit, five or six years previously. Maybe the jammers been added during routine maintenance, only a year or so ago, but even so that implied they'd decided Pegasus itself was just as big a threat as President Carter. The type of men who decided their vision was the only right vision … damn, but his father was exactly that type of man, only John didn't think his father could be a traitor, just a bastard. He'd still have to do some checking, or maybe drop a hint to O'Neill, just to make sure, since he had the feeling the general was going to be taking lead on a lot more than the immediate situation after this. Only that and his dad wasn't what he should be thinking on now.

"Rodney's talking to Peter, has put in a call for a trauma team," John informed Bates in turn. "We've kept control here, but Elizabeth's been shot, and Sumner and Markham are among the dead. Secretary of State Simmons is the one who engineered the shut-down and takeover, at least from this end, and we've got him here in the arboretum in restraints. Some of his men have been contained in the library, so we're also going to need law enforcement to take them all into custody, as those guys are armed."

"" _Shit_ ," Bates responded and then paused to take it all in. " _Any other injuries_?" he finally asked.

John pulled away from his phone for a few seconds. "Rodney," he began, only to find that Rodney and Jeannie both were scooting over in his direction. "Hey, Jeannie," he then redirected his attention. "You're not really in labor, right?"

"Right," she agreed with a scornful snort, aiming a kick toward Simmons though she was too far away to actually reach him. "Obviously this idiot's too selfish or misogynistic to understand women."

"Bates, we're okay here other than Elizabeth," John then returned to filing Bates in. "There are still the other VIPs, though, and I have no idea of whether there is still a traitor amongst them, or what their conditions are."

" _Roger that. O'Neill's just said he's going back in with the hostage response team. You guys are to stay put_ – "

"Negative. We need to get Elizabeth over to the clinic in Avalon," John interrupted. "If you can redirect the trauma team there, we'll surrender to whoever O'Neill sends in with them."

Rodney and Jeannie both looked like they had some issue with that – truthfully so did John since he wasn't feeling so trustful of anyone he didn't know right now. But it was the right thing to say, even so. Whoever was responding would be twitchy at best, and just as distrustful, especially of armed civilians.

" _Will do, sir. Call me back when you're cleared_."

"Roger." John hung up. "Sam and the girls are safe," he then told the others. "Evan, maybe you can – "

"I've got Simmons. And my own phone. I'll call Bates back and tell him I'm keeping this dirt bag here in the mud where he belongs. You get Elizabeth out of here, sir."

John was about to object to the second person calling him sir in less than a minute, but was too tired to spend the effort protesting. "Rodney, there should be a plant cart or something we can use as a gurney. Can you – "

"You fucked your knee up again with your heroics, didn't you." Rodney was the one who interrupted this time, giving John a pointed look and a scowl, not that it took a genius to see that John wasn't moving very fast in pulling himself up, despite the urgency needed to see to Elizabeth.

He had, but his arm was hurting worse, now that his mind was agreeing with his body that they were done. _He_ was done; another adrenaline burst from worry over Rodney or the others would likely just make him sick.

Jeannie was up before John managed it, and she shoved Rodney over in Elizabeth's direction. "I've got him. Go help Janet."

Like hell John was going to let Jeannie prop him up which, given her sly smile, she'd known would be his reaction.

"We'll help each other," Jeannie announced with a wink.

Rodney let himself be persuaded, reluctantly, and in the next couple of minutes, he and Janet were racing away, with a hastily drawn map from John to show them the route, and John's badge in hand with a promise to leave all of the doors open. John gave Evan one more look, getting a reassuring nod in return, before he gestured for Jeannie to proceed him. The blinking red light from the first door they reached got him thinking about that unidentified group that had been moving freely through Atlantis on Rodney's detector. He pulled his phone out and hit Radek's number.

"Hey, Radek, where are you now?"

*****

  


## DEATH TOLL IN BIZZARE OUTBREAK IN DUBAI TO HIT 50,000, GOVERNMENTAL OFFICIALS PREDICT

## TEN KILLED DURING PRESIDENTIAL VISIT TO ATLANTIS

## TREASON IN SEASON US SECRETARY OF STATE THE LATEST HIGH LEVEL GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL TO BE INDICTED IN CONSPIRACY TO OVERTHROW THE CARTER GOVERNMENT

## ELIZABETH WEIR HOSPITALIZED AFTER BEING SHOT PEGASUS HOLDINGS GROUP OWNER IN COMA. IT IS NOT KNOWN IF OR WHEN SHE WILL RECOVER

## PRESIDENT CARTER CALLS FOR A DAY OF MOURNING AND REFLECTION

## THOUSANDS AFFECTED AS FDA RECALLS DEVLIN RFID CHIPS

## DEVLIN MEDICAL TECHNOLOGIES STOCK PLUNGES AS CEO NAMED IN CRIMINAL PROSECUTIONS

## JOHN SHEPPARD NAMED INTERIM PRESIDENT OF PEGASUS GROUP TO CO-RUN COMPANY WITH PEGASUS CORPORATE ATTORNEY RICHARD WOOLSEY

## EMMETT BREGMAN EXCLUSIVE: INSIDE ATLANTIS DURING THE TRUST TAKEDOWN

## UFO SIGHTED OVER THE FOUR CORNERS REGION OF NEW MEXICO  


 **Epilogue**

Like any sane person, Rodney loathed funerals. Participating in a series of them over the past several days had left him drained and angry, and feeling slightly guilty over resenting the call on his time. He could feel grateful that Elizabeth's was not one of scheduled four he was on the hook to attend, although they still didn't know if they were putting it off for a day, a week, or years into the future.

If ever Rodney hated the imprecise, non-scientific nature of the practice of medicine, it was now. They knew the scope and nature of her injury, but not the extent of the damage and, despite Carson, Jennifer and even Janet Frasier's skills and expertise, there was nothing more the doctors could do for Elizabeth but wait and watch, with no idea of whether or not she would recover. Carson suggested that they pray for a miracle.

Not that Rodney would stoop to something so superstitious. He had refrained from throwing his disdain for relying on faith instead of knowledge back in Carson's face, however. Were he the type of man to pray, he'd already received two answered prayers already: Jeannie and John, both safe and quickly out of Jennifer's hands. Asking for another seemed more than any one man could expect, even of a deity – especially one he didn't believe in previously.

That had been the one bright spot, if one could exist during a funeral: John had been released from Jennifer's care in time to stand at Rodney's side. Even though Rodney was rather pissed at him about the standing part.

While John had been smart enough to relinquish the pilot's seat to Evan for the flight out, not only had John refused to use the wheelchair Rodney had arranged upon their arrival at Reagan National, so as to not further re-injure his knee, he was also refusing to use his cane or to keep his arm in a sling, claiming overt evidence of his injuries would distract other attendees from the funerals themselves. Which might be true of the paparazzi and other so-called journalists trying to get their own hooks into the events of a week ago, but it wasn't like the dead cared that they weren't the center of attention and, frankly, the family members Rodney had had to meet and interact with already seemed to prefer someone else be the target of the gawkers and hacks. Particularly Aiden Ford's cousin.

Just one more to go, though, and Rodney was already looking forward to coming back to the hotel when they were finished with Marshall Sumner's ceremony at Arlington. The Willard InterContinental was no Wynn Las Vegas, but it was pretty comfortable nonetheless, and up to handling the massive security arrangements necessary, since it was so close to the White House. They'd been given the Oval Suite (Woolsey having claimed the Thomas Jefferson Suite, and O'Neill the George Washington), and while it wasn't home, the bed was large, comfortable, and the bedroom Lorne and Bates were sharing was on the opposite side, and each with their own separate entrances beyond the main entrance to the interconnected rooms.

Rodney had some serious plans involving that bedroom and John, without needing to worry about being interrupted or overheard. They had enough worries as it was, and both needed the distraction as well as the opportunity to reconnect with each other. For one night, Rodney wanted John to forget about his fears over taking over so many of Elizabeth's duties in the company on top of his resentment at her naming him as her replacement in the event of her death or disablement. He wanted to distract John from the guilt he still felt over killing Sumner even if the old bastard had pretty much commanded John to do so, despite the necessity of doing it, despite saving everyone's lives with his actions. Maybe then, Rodney could put his own nightmares behind him: to quit running the numbers of the death toll in the States if Simmons' plan and the toxin hadn't been stopped, and stop imagining Jeannie losing her baby or him losing Jeannie. No more playing out the all too easy visual of it being John lying there, either at Simmons' feet or in the hospital instead of Elizabeth –

"Hey, Rodney, we need to get a move on. A little help, please?"

"Coming." Rodney finished drying off his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. John's one concession to getting hurt again, was allowing Rodney's assistance in getting dressed when something more was called for than sweats or a shirt John could pull on easily himself. He gave himself a quick glance in the mirror, still surprised to see just what he expected instead of something different, something that reflected the enormity of what he'd gone through. No scars, though, no thousand yard stare or any tangible evidence of trauma – not even bags under his eyes from losing sleep or traveling back and forth across country.

A part of him felt guilty about looking and feeling so normal, for getting on with his life, but what was the alternative. Wallowing in it like Carson was? Feeling guilty that he'd missed everything, like Woolsey? As recent circumstances had so aptly proven, life was too short, and it wasn't like he wouldn't panic once more when the next crisis came along, even if it was just Radek blowing something up in the lab.

"Is there anything I need to be aware of at this one?" he began as he left the bathroom. "Any difference in a military funeral than – Oh."

Well, that was certainly different. Rodney had never known Major John Sheppard, though he'd had a vague awareness that John kept a uniform in the back of his closet. He hadn't thought about why and certainly hadn't put two and two together in this instance.

John's Air Force dress blues were laid out across the foot of their bed, waiting to be donned and worn to Marshall Sumner's funeral, a true sign of the respect John had held for the man he'd been forced to shoot.

The prospect of seeing John in them left Rodney breathless.

He'd seen enough dress uniforms from all of the military services when he'd been working directly on DoD and DARPA projects, back when he'd dated Sam all those years ago. They looked good. Even O'Neill had looked hot in his in Atlantis.

John would look smoking.

Even better than how he looked in those dress blues, would be getting John out of them.

– finis –

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["The Atlantis Factor" - book cover & "The Atlantis Factor" - NYT front page](https://archiveofourown.org/works/113979) by [from_the_corner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/from_the_corner/pseuds/from_the_corner)
  * [The Marriage Factor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/120104) by [Cesare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare)




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